


Quiet Moments

by Wenzel



Series: Between Shadows and Light [4]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Ficlet Collection, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-05
Updated: 2018-04-10
Packaged: 2018-11-23 20:40:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 33
Words: 24,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11409813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wenzel/pseuds/Wenzel
Summary: Side stories from my series Between Shadow and Light!





	1. Volux | The Secrets We Keep

“He doesn’t belong here,” Volux had told Thace.

Thace hadn’t met their eyes. “Tell that,” he’d said, “to the Emperor. I doubt he has the patience for either of us now.”

It sadly summed up everything wrong with the Paladin’s arrival to Gal. The Emperor, absorbed in the Paladin’s handsome form and mercurial nature, ignored reasonable concerns about safety, about threats to the empire, or about Voltron. It’d been only a few days at the Palace, yet the Emperor had spent most of it at dinners, dances, and dainty rain parties. Meanwhile, Voltron harassed the empire’s borders and outposts, the Clarion lurked, waiting for a chance to strike again, and Central Command bled into the void of space.

It wasn’t Volux’s concern. They’d been told that before-- by Thace, by Haggar, and by fellow middling-ranked Druids. Volux’s duty was to tend to the harvest of quintessence, feed the Voice, and weave marvels and mysticism. Yet Volux knew things they did not. Thace didn’t understand what their shared secret meant beyond the obvious. No one else knew the secret, though Haggar, the Druids, and Zarkon would know what it meant. Volux suspected they had their suspicions on parts of the truth-- they’d have to-- but the whole truth was stranger, messier than what could be assumed. 

“You look tired,” one of Volux’s subordinates murmured. 

Volux stared ahead as their fingers worked quickly, writing out the basic translation of Old Galran. The words were simple-- tree, rock, here, I-- but took decades to learn, each new word or grammatical feature given out by changes in hierarchy. High Druid Haggar hid away each one, and it was only with Volux’s insistence that they’d progressed at all. Volux was 18-- an adult among the Galra, but only by a year. Kei-- the Paladin would see him as an almost-child as well. It was why Volux had never told him. 

Volux hadn’t told the Paladin much of anything, though. Every word they shared between each other, Volux feared that the Paladin would divine the truth. While the Paladin wasn’t the brightest Volux had ever encountered, he had a low cunning that let him foresee trickery, and a stubborn mind that pushed him to keep digging, even when his hands bled. 

The Paladin thought they were friends. Volux would never claim that the Paladin trusted him, but the Paladin seemed to believe there was an agreement of sorts between them. Volux would be sharp and biting; the Paladin would act as the heart for both of them, and from that, an understanding would form, and they’d bond together. Said bond, whatever its strength, had earned Volux the Paladin’s loyalty, to where he seemed to worry about what would become of Volux.

What would the Paladin do if he knew the truth? Thace had sworn Volux to secrecy, yet Volux suspected that Thace might share the truth. Thace was, ultimately, a weak man, already compromised by Wrin and his freeing of Voltron in the initial attack. Volux didn’t doubt Thace would bare the truth to the Emperor or the Paladin if it meant saving someone he loved. 

Volux doubted they counted. 


	2. Hyladra | Uniform

The new uniform wasn’t hers. Not really. It belonged to Hani-- real Hani, those trained and chosen by High Command. Hani were decorated soldiers, known for their prowess and smarts. The tradition dated back to the time of the Great Heoes. Even before Voltron, Hani had existed. The first queen of Gal had instituted the Hani: a guard for each noble, for each minister, for each high-ranking soldier. Galra soldiers dedicated decades of their lives to becoming worthy of the title.

Hyladra-- young and still a cadet-- had been promoted to Hani. It was political. She needed to be close to Keith and Keith needed a guard that knew both the truth and was someone he trusted. The youngest Hani in history had been a ranking corporal, twenty four, and a hero of a pitched battle in a far-flung world. She’d beaten him by five years, though she hadn’t earned it.

That was what haunted her. Her friendship with Keith got her the title. What had she done to truly earn being a Hani? She couldn’t ask anyone that. Her parents were proud. Her mother, sick and frail and once again confined to bed, had cried at the news. She’d never be a doctor, but her child would be one of the Emperor’s most trusted soldiers. Hyladra’s mother hadn’t asked how she’d managed to become the youngest Hani to ever live.

Nobody considered Prince Caith a particularly high-status person to guard. The hundred or so Hani in existence scrambled to guard the Emperor or Commander Prorok. High Ministers or hereditary warlords were good as a second option. A foreign prince from the Blackmouths? It was an entry position, even if it was desirable by virtue of being a Hani assignment. 

Hyladra sighed as she fussed with the cuffs. She couldn’t leave the position. Even if she felt like she didn’t deserve it, Keith needed protection and-- if she was honest-- she wanted the position. She could earn it later, she thought. Someone might attack Keith, like the Clarion, and she’d rescue him from danger, and then she could prove to those around her that it wasn’t a mistake, nor was it simple cronyism. 

When she’d received the command to accompany Keith, she’d been excited. It opened up possibility after possibility. Even better, she could see the Palace and live a dozen childish fantasies on what life was like in its marbled halls. She hadn’t expected the title of Hani to be offered, nor did she expect the promotion to be public. The guilty part of her had celebrated. To Keith, she’d smiled and laughed and enjoyed the luxury. Mentioning the inner conflict would only make his situation more difficult.

He didn’t know what being a Hani meant. He assumed it was simply a Galran word for bodyguard, but it was more than that. Nobody dared tell him Hani meant more than guard: it meant captor, it meant confidante, and it meant the guarded’s only conduit to the outside world. Would he hate her if he knew? She didn’t know.


	3. Zeith | Space Coffee and Plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a little AU from Find Me In The Shadows/Salt and Blood!

“You look tired,” Zarkon said, as though that were something new.

Keith hunched in on himself. “Couldn’t sleep.” He shrugged. “The hearth distracted me. I don’t know how you guys sleep with the flames.”

Zarkon poured a glass of a black, glittery liquid. Instead of taking it himself, he pushed it over to Keith. “It is a luxury of acquired taste. Galra grow up sleeping around hearths. The cold desert is unkind at night.” He motioned at the drink. “You’ll adjust after a few days. You’ll even learn to enjoy it. It was comforting, was it not?”

“Partially,” Keith admitted. “It was like a blanket straight from the dryer. But the flames kept pulling me from sleep. I kept thinking something was on fire.”

Zarkon considered that. “It was, in a way. Take the drink, Keith. It will soothe your mind.” He tapped the back of Keith’s hand. “I wish to take you to see the Palace’s heart, and I can’t have you falling asleep for it. It’d certainly offend the officers.”

Keith snorted, even as he took the glass. “I’m sure they’ll be thrilled to give a tour in the first place.” The liquid tasted tart and almost bitter. When it first touched his tongue, something electric sizzled over his senses. It took his sluggish mind and kicked it, just like coffee would. He made a face as it went down. “What  _ is _ that?” He scraped at his tongue with his front teeth. 

“Pressed berries from the Deada tree. They’re known for their caffeine.” Zarkon offered a stick of sugared pastry. “To help it go down, darling.”

He alternated sips of the berry drink and bites from the pastry. It made the drink tolerable. “So what exactly do you want to show me?” he asked. “Military operations, obviously, but what else?”

“You’ve long known about the Voice.” Keith stopped mid-bite. “You’ve accepted why I do what I do. I have shown you the reasons, and you-- as a student of my crimes-- have judged them worthy of understanding.” Zarkon shook his head. “But I have not shown you the reason face to face. I owe you the knowledge of the path you’ve chosen. Particularly since you wish to convince your former allies to agree to this.”

Keith stared at Zarkon, who reached over and touched his cheek. “You don’t need to be afraid,” Zarkon murmured. “I will let nothing hurt you.”

“I’m not afraid,” Keith said. Zarkon raised a brow. “I made a choice, and I’m sticking with it. I know your reasons. I don’t agree with every action you’ve taken, but I’m here now. You said I’m a partner in this.”

Zarkon smiled, wide and shockingly bright. The softness to his eyes would have stunned his subjects. The Palace would have gossiped for months about it. Zarkon leaned forward, pressing a dry, gentle kiss to Keith’s temple. Keith’s ears twitched; he was still embarrassed whenever Zarkon showed affection. 

Keith thought about saying something. Maybe it’d be romantic or clever or just plain sweet. There were no words that came to mind, though, So he leaned over and buried his face in Zarkon’s shoulder, and enjoyed the warmth of Zarkon’s arms around him.


	4. Zeith AU | Zarkon is not a party animal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another Zeith AU!

The High Minister of Nira had arrived and once again, Keith found himself trapped by invitations to parties, dinners, and balls. “People want to see you,” Zarkon told him when he complained. “They know you have my ear, and that means much to them.”

“An idea that won’t convince you won’t convince me.” Keith scowled down at his thiwye. The little balls of fruits, petals, and nuts tasted as comforting as it had in Hyladra’s memories. The evaporated cream tasted sweet, though the stickiness gummed up his pointed teeth. “I guess they’ll have to learn that, won’t they?”

Zarkon smiled as he peeled apart his thiwye. Zarkon favoured the fruits and petals to the nuts, which he discarded in a separate plate. Keith knew he’d nudge it in Keith’s direction soon. “Give one of them a proper tongue-lashing, and you’ll find the invitations become more perfunctory than eager begging. A fool is valuable to the ambitious. Meanwhile, to the truly powerful, only a grain of sand is worth less.”

Keith chewed a sour-tasting petal. It scorched his tongue. “So they’ll try to find someone else who can access you when I become a non-option. Who would that be?”

“Most avenues of this generation have been tried.” Zarkon nudged the plate of discarded nuts with a forefinger. It edged closer to Keith. “Prorok is far from wise, but his loyalty keeps him from bringing me idle gossip or simpered requests. Haggar has no time for any but her Druids and the Voice. Sendak killed a conspirator once, who hoped to steal imperial lands for their own enrichment. To say the least, it got him struck from many a party’s invitee list.”

“Do you go to any of them?” Zarkon blinked at him. “I mean, they’ve got to send you invitations. It’d be rude not to. But do you go to any, or do you keep to your own events? I haven’t been around for stuff like this before.”

Zarkon shrugged. “A handful,” he admitted. “A few years ago, Warlord Kera hosted a party to watch the moons. I was in a bored mood, so I attended. She was quite happy. But I am rarely at the Palace, darling, so most invitations are dealt with by my servants and disposed of in the trash.”

“I’m sure the notables of the Palace would be thrilled to hear that.” 

Zarkon smirked. “Few expect me to go, and those who do quickly learn better. Other people’s events are awkward affairs. I know quite well that I am Emperor, but when is it polite to leave? Am I supposed to know those in attendance, even when they don’t give me a name? Then there is the matter of food. So many Galra adore sour foods, while I have never acquired the taste.”

“So you prefer your own parties where you can control things.” It made sense, even if it was shockingly shy for Zarkon. Keith didn’t find himself stunned, though. Zarkon had preferences, just like everyone else. It was natural, even if most people didn’t care to put in the thought for matters like it. “I haven’t been to other people’s parties, but I think I like yours best.”

Zarkon raised an eyebrow. “You sound certain of that.”

“I like seeing you happy.”


	5. Zeith AU | Keith doesn't get the Galra

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AU Zeith Prompt!

“You look tired,” Zarkon murmured as Keith burrowed into the couch’s pillows. “You slept, didn’t you?”

“Not enough,” Keith said. His spine twisted in a way that a human’s never could, but felt fine as a Galra. “There’s always something in the morning to wake up for, and the night’s are rarely peaceful.” He tried not to give into the urge to whine. “The pillows are nice here.”

Zarkon snorted. “I feel like a poor host! Should I make breakfast later?”

“Rime would be unhappy,” Keith said. “It’s always hungry.”

Zarkon considered that. “A light breakfast served in bed, then. Your dendin enjoys jaju fruit, yes?”

“It likes the insides.” Keith let his eyes close. Zarkon’s shadow loomed over him. “Do you think it’d like Mahadra water?”

Zarkon hummed as he thought. “Probably not. Dendin, from my knowledge, do need to actively consume salts, but Mahadra is… likely too strong.”

“Then that’s one route to get rid of any glasses of it gone.” Keith rolled on to his side. The desert breeze played with his long right ear. The couch pillow dipped as Zarkon sat on the edge; he was angled toward Keith. “Is there really enough room for both of us?” He didn’t want to open his eyes.

A long finger traced his ear. “You can simply say you dislike it. Your disguise as a Blackmouth will explain a lot in the eyes of those who care.”

His ear twitched. Zarkon’s touch remained. “It’ll be just another weird thing, though. I’d rather grimace and ignore the glass than endure the gossip over something so dumb.”  He curled in on himself, though it pressed him against Zarkon. “...Are you really going to let me sleep here?”

Zarkon leaned down and nuzzled Keith’s cheek. “If you wish to. These are my rooms, Keith--whatever I want, it will happen.”

“That sounds more ominous than anything else,” Keith said. Sharp teeth nipped at his ear. Keith jerked back, his eyes snapping open. “Did you seriously--?”

Zarkon raised a brow. “I suspect we have encountered a cultural barrier. I nipped your ear, yes.” 

“That,” Keith said, “is, uh. Well, it’s weird where I’m from.”  _ Sexual, _ where he was from. “What does it mean for the Galra?”

Zarkon picked him apart with calculating purple eyes. “A teasing scold among friends or lovers. What does it mean among humans?”

“I’m not sure I want to tell you,” Keith admitted. He reached up to rub the tip of his ear. Zarkon nudged him. “Okay, but it’s going to make this weird. It’s purely a sexual thing.” Zarkon’s eyes widened. “So, uh. Yeah.”

“Well, that is… enlightening.” Zarkon shook his head. “I shall keep my teeth to myself, though I hope you take to heart the slight scolding.”

“I’m thoroughly chastened or something.” 


	6. Zeith AU | tall tails

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Zeith-y FMITS AU with tails.

Keith had a tail. It shouldn’t have surprised Zarkon, but it did. “I hate it,” Keith said immediately. “It’s everywhere it  _ shouldn’t _ be.” The long, thin tail whipped around his legs. The tip kept hooking at his hock and twitching. The feeling seemed to drive Keith mad: he jerked and hissed at the tail each time. “How do people live with these?”

“From birth,” Zarkon said from behind his desk. Keith paced in front, already adjusting to his new form. Zarkon admired that. It took a quick and stoic mind to endure what Keith had. “While I have no tail, I can give you advice, if you’re willing to listen.” Keith’s tail rose like the sun. The tip hovered over his head, pointed at Zarkon like a stinger. Zarkon tried not to let his eyes widen. 

Keith crossed his arms. “Tell me how to control this. I know--I  _ know _ it’s saying things. Your expression confirmed it.” He jabbed a finger to the tip above his head. “What is it saying?”

Zarkon was too old to avoid Keith’s gaze. “...It is communicating interest.” The tip sunk below Keith’s head and the tail wrapped around his left leg. “Shyness.” The tip pointed down. “Discomfort--”

“Enough!” Keith reached up and rubbed at his eyes with his palms. There were no tears. His tail released his leg and went to whipping about again. He radiated frustration. “Okay. So it’s saying… more than it should. Tell me how to control it.”

“You will be okay,” Zarkon said gently. The tail’s movements slowed. “This is an inconvenient result for both of us, but you can learn how to control it.” Keith let out a sigh, as though releasing his anger and worry. Zarkon kept his expression calm. Every motion of Keith’s tail radiated relief whenever Zarkon spoke. “Stop focusing on the appendage. Would you think about moving your fingers, or would you simply do it?”

“You make it sound so easy.” Keith frowned, though, and his tail stopped moving. Seconds passed. Then the tail flicked and Keith released a long, deep sigh. “It’s going to take time. More time than we have.”

“We have as much time as you need,” Zarkon said. Keith’s ears dipped down, and his tail rose. Had the Paladin already become so attached? Zarkon had thought he was a lonely man, but to bond to a sworn enemy was… strange, if interesting. “I would ask you to sit, but I fear you’d sit on your tail.”

Keith sighed. “Probably.” He reached behind to touch his own tail. “It hurts, weirdly. Not to touch it, but when it moves.”

“The muscles and tendons are new,” Zarkon said. “I wouldn’t be shocked if they were already tired. They’ve been swishing around for how long now?”

“Six hours.” His tail looked silky smooth from where Zarkon sat. Some Galra were cursed with rough, bushy tails, each of them unattractive and repellant. “I’ve been trying to figure out how it works since I woke up.” Keith shook his head. “Volux  _ laughed _ at me.”

“Well,” Zarkon said, “at least their victory will be short-lived.” The relief on Keith’s face declared that every careful statement, every smile, and every laugh had worked its magic. Zarkon couldn’t resist the smugness that filled him. The Red Paladin was already his. The man just didn’t know it yet.


	7. Zeith AU | dancing is good says Zarkon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Zeith AU dancing prompt!

“You’ve never looked comfortable dancing,” Zarkon said. “You’re undeniably good at it, yet every time I look at your face, it’s either blank or a grimace. Do humans not dance?”

Keith flopped onto a couch. “We do, but not like Galra. At least, mostly. We have dances like what Galra do but they’re just very  _ niche _ , I guess. We prefer faster dances that are more fluid.” That was a generalization he couldn’t really back up. “But keep in mind, we’ve got thousands of dance types.”

“You should show me one of your home planet’s dances.” Zarkon’s eyes glinted with mischief. “I know so little about your planet, Keith! You have to show me a taste. Or better--teach me.”

No. “No,” Keith said. “I did enough dancing at the temple.”

“I never really got to see you dance,” Zarkon mused. “Isn’t it cruel of you to keep the performances to yourself?”

Keith frowned. “It’s not like I’m hoarding water in the desert. I’m sure you had cameras to see what I was doing anyway.”

“Temple dancing is not like casual dancing, nor is it like human dancing, by your own admission.” Zarkon stood from his desk and reached out with a large hand. “Show me a human dance, Keith. I promise not to step on your feet.”

Keith sighed, but he took the hand and stood. “How good a dancer are you?”

Zarkon laughed. “Interviewing your partners now? I am sufficient at dancing--I won’t trip and fall on you, if that comforts you at all.”

“More than you think,” Keith said. Zarkon falling on him would get Keith bruises, if not broken bones. “We’ll start simple.” He couldn’t follow Zarkon with their height differences, so he took the lead position after arranging Zarkon’s limbs. “So, uh.” How did the waltz work? He’d never really studied it, though it appeared in every movie about royals or aristocracy. “Do the opposite of what I do.”

Zarkon blinked down at him. “Instructive,” he murmured. “I take it you never taught someone to dance on Earth.”

“Is this even appropriate?” Keith frowned. “Like, should Prince Caith be teaching the Emperor how to do foreign dances? I’m pretty sure Gryva wouldn’t approve.”

“She rarely approves of anything.” Zarkon seemed unfazed, though Keith wondered how Zarkon knew her reputation. Who had Gryva worked for before? “Your ears are advertising your every thought.” A door opened somewhere in Zarkon’s quarters, and voices became audible. “Lead me, Caith.”

He turned red from his toes to the tip of his head. “I hate you  _ so much _ ,” Keith hissed as people climbed the stairs to Zarkon’s office. His grip tightened on Zarkon’s shoulder. “Feet together and then back with your right foot, then diagonally with your left.”

He led Zarkon through a hesitant shuffle. The door swung open, and someone gasped. “Let’s do a turn,” Keith said briskly, as though people weren’t watching. Zarkon had filled in the gaps, which was the only thing that saved the smooth turn Keith led them into. Should Keith do a flourish?

Zarkon made the choice for him. He stepped back, away from Keith, his free arm raising. Keith performed a bow to the Emperor, if only to not leave him hanging. Generals, ministers, and servants watched. Someone clapped, and Keith tried not to die of embarrassment. 

He hated Zarkon so much.


	8. Zeith AU | fireworks! and awkward cuddling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Zeith AU with fireworks prompt

The fireworks were carefully lined up across the desert. Workers hurried about, aware that the heavy clouds were thinning, allowing moonlight in and thus ruining the sight. Lanterns were at each group of fireworks..

“They have thirty or so minutes,” Thace said, “before the moons’ light will wash out everything else.” The man carried a glass of wine with him that he rarely touched. “That should be enough time, if they’re competent.”

They were on a balcony in Zarkon’s rooms. His bedrooms were arrayed above his office. Thace, Zarkon, Sendak, and himself were arranged on couches, watching the scene. Zarkon’s jungle below shrouded any views from the veranda, but the balcony looked out just above the foliage.

Zarkon waved a hand, as though conjuring something from the aether. “They’ll get it done in time.” He didn’t watch as the groundskeepers worked. Instead, he kept looking over at Keith. 

Keith refused to meet Zarkon’s eyes. With Sendak and Thace on the balcony, he didn’t feel comfortable inviting Zarkon’s...weirdness. He was on display enough already without the peanut gallery chiming in. Cold breezes tugged at his hair and clothes, as though impatient for him to move. He shivered at the touch.

Zarkon noticed. “Sendak, fetch a blanket.”

Keith looked over at the soldier in time to see Sendak’s deep frown. “As you wish, Emperor.” He stood from the couch across from Thace and vanished into the Palace. 

Thace eyed Keith, as though he were a culprit of something nefarious. “Shall I fetch us more drinks?” The table was laden in pitchers and cups. Keith’s stomach sunk. They were setting things up for Keith to be alone with Zarkon. When Zarkon agreed, it was just them.

Zarkon sat in a pillowy chair, dressed in fine linens. Keith had been bundled in the furs of the Blackmouths. How Zarkon could stand the cold, Keith didn’t know. Keith found it almost unbearable.

“For someone meant to be a Blackmouth,” Zarkon mused, “you have none of the endurance for the desert cold.” He reached out a hand. “Sit with me. You’ll find myself quite warm. You’ll tolerate it long enough for Sendak to return with a proper blanket, won’t you?”

Another icy breeze drove him into Zarkon’s lap. The man was, blessedly, big enough to just sit on his knee. Zarkon pulled him in, though, and wrapped his arms around Keith’s waist. The bared fur of his arms was stroked, as though Zarkon was comforting a jittery animal. 

“This is the most uncomfortable I’ve ever been,” Keith said.

Zarkon snorted. The wind slashed at Keith’s form, but Zarkon’s bulk and warmth kept him from the worst of it. “Don’t lie,” Zarkon murmured. His left hand reached up to toy with Keith’s bun. Keith tried to swat him away, but all that did was make Zarkon laugh. 

“What is it with you and my hair?”

Zarkon shrugged. “It’s soft,” Zarkon said. “And your ears react in the funniest of ways when it’s touched.”

“You’re intolerable,” Keith muttered. He let himself fall back on to Zarkon’s chest.


	9. Canon | Palace Gossip

“I heard Prince Caith sings for the Emperor,” Bima said as he scrubbed a table. “A friend caught the Prince performing a love ballad--”

“You don’t have friends in the Emperor’s suite,” Jen said. He glared at Bima. “Stop pretending to know more than your station.”

Bima hunched as he worked. “Fine, I heard it from a washer by the gardens.  _ She _ has friends at the suite, and they say they heard the Prince singing.”

Efin perked up. “I’ve heard things about the Prince as well.” Bima and Jen turned to her as her hands spread out tablecloths on the cleaned tables. “I have a friend in his household. He says the Prince loves to sleep, as though he were ancient and not a man in his prime. The Prince’s favourites are strange as well. He surrounds himself with servants who dress him only in the finest clothes to attract the Emperor’s attention.”

“I’m not sure about that,” Jen said. He sighed, as though giving into the gossip. “He attends the Emperor’s functions only some of the time, doesn’t he? That’s not the action of a smitten man.”

“Something rarely given is missed far more than something you have every day,” Efin pointed out. “If I wished to attract the attention of a man, I wouldn’t sprawl atop him and beg for attention every time I saw him. I would charm through looks, words, and keenly felt absences.” She ran a hand through her long hair that she’d pinned up in a complex bun. “Then, he would be mine.”

Bima frowned. “No one wants you,” he said, and Efin turned to kick him in the leg. Bima staggered away, yelping. “It’s true, though! You’re pretty as an elhorn, but everyone knows you snore and pick your fur in public!”

“You’re horrible!” Efin took another swat at Bima before she turned away, as though nothing had happened.

Jen sighed. “Anyway.  _ I’ve _ heard the Emperor has sent the Prince a bouquet of duskflowers from the Palace’s gardens. And that he used the bouquet to dye his hair as he did.”

“It looks stunning,” Efin declared.

Bima shook his head. “It’s  _ ugly _ ,” he said. Efin turned to him, wrath on her face, and Bima shrugged. “Gaudy, cheap, and frivolous.”

“I think it’s charming,” Jen cut in. “Is it frivolous? Yes. But this Palace thrives on silly things when the Emperor is gone. I’ve seen other notables wear worse.” He sighed. “The only reason anyone says anything is because the Prince is near the Emperor.”

“True,” Bima conceded. “But his proximity to the Emperor is what makes it important. The Prince is a foreigner, despite his bloodline. Blackmouths betrayed the Empire centuries ago and were certain to discard all their loyalties. As wonderful as it is to see one of them return to us, what reason do we have to trust him other than his word?”

“The Voice hasn’t attacked him.” Jen tried to keep his tone mild, but he saw Efin bow her head, as though talking in her mind to the Voice. “She’s accepted him, and I’ve heard he’s gone to the Temple with Druids. They would know his thoughts the better than any shred of gossip.If the Voice accepts him and the Emperor wishes for the Prince to be his lover, then it is our duty to not get in the way.”

They lapsed into silence before Bima spoke. “I still think his hair is ugly.”


	10. Canon | Allura's no good very bad year

The exhaustion she felt had lasted months. It didn’t matter how much she slept, or how well she ate. It trailed her like a dress’ train. She met with leaders of foreign planets and coaxed them into an alliance, and in between meeting breaks, she yawned and shuddered through the fatigue. Coran plied her with teas meant to revitalize. None of them worked for long. This was her world now. 

The Lions could still fight as individuals. The strength of the Yellow Lion, the cunning of Green, the tactics of Black, and the power of Blue all outmatched any Galran ship. What terrified her, in the dark of space, were the Beasts that the Empire sent. Without the speed of the Red Lion and the might of Voltron, they lost planet after planet. The times they won came at great cost: entire fleets were decimated before the Beasts were slain.

The rebellion against Zarkon teetered on the brink of collapse, all because of one poor decision. If they hadn’t have come for her at Central Command, Keith would still be there. The Red Lion would still be part of Voltron. If she had less control, she would have railed at Shiro. Instead, she cried in private, wiped the tears away as the lights brightened on the Castle to imitate morning, and then continued on.

They didn’t know where Keith even was. The information that he was on Central Command had been gathered through intercepted communications and interrogations of Galran soldiers, but the latest news had struck a blow to Voltron’s heart.  _ They killed him _ , the woman had said.  _ The Clarion. He hasn’t been seen since, and I think he’s dead and gone. So how is that for you, outsiders? _

Allura refused to believe it. If Zarkon had killed Keith, the other Lions would know. Zarkon would have sent a message-- not directly, but through actions. Galra would have been lined up in front of the Red Lion to replace Keith. The Clarion would have been slaughtered. Whatever reason Zarkon had for keeping Keith alive, it was calculated. It was done with a purpose. Keith being dead would destroy Zarkon’s plans.

What those plans were, not even his soldiers knew. Some had guesses, though each interrogation took using machines to sort through their memories. The tantalizing views of Keith, dressed in Galran armour and wandering Central Command’s halls, were scarce. Most of the soldiers had never seen him. Their thoughts were fuzzy and abstract, making it hard to gather them. Those who hadn’t met him believed, most often, that his continued existence was a trap for Voltron. 

The one soldier who’d seen him had memories of him in a simulation room. Keith had been pale and withered, as though being on Central Command slowly destroyed him. The soldier-- Hetta-- had memories of a serpent and ship weaving between each other on a screen. Below, another Galra traced the movements like a conductor of a symphony.

_ What do you think the Emperor wants from the Red Paladin? _ Allura had asked through the machine.

_ A new right hand _ , Hetta’s memories replied.


	11. Canon | Antok/Kolivan and festivities

“The Moonbreak Festival is coming up,” Antok said. Kolivan hunched over his desk, eyes trained on his screen. “The other Blades will want to celebrate.”

Kolivan shook his head. “The Festival is too tied into the Voice. If one of them slips, the Voice could get inside their head.” He sighed. “Tell them there’ll be no festivities.” Antok didn’t speak: instead, he kept his post and radiated displeasure. “... You understand why I do this, Antok.”

“You are overly cautious,” Antok said. His mask hid his expression, though his voice communicated his thoughts easily. “The Blades here have worked with us for years. None of them would turn to the Voice after so long away from her. The festivities would give them time to breathe.”

“Wohan 5.” Antok didn’t reply; Kolivan imagined the man’s lips thinning behind the mask. “They thought the same, and the Voice found them. How many did we lose?” Antok didn’t speak. “Antok--”

“Fifteen,” Antok admitted. “But half of those were new recruits and the rest were marked as weak. Wohan 5 was created as a place to contain risk. You told me that when you had me reassign the others.”

Kolivan sighed. He brushed aside the projected screen, leaned back in his chair, and crossed his arms. “This is personal for you. Why?”

“I believe in our work.”

“I know,” Kolivan said. “I do not question your devotion.”

Antok looked away. The Galra had always hated arguing. Words eluded him when he was on the spot, and Kolivan would have felt guilt if the subject wasn’t so important.  _ Why are you willing to risk the Blade for a festival _ demanded an answer. 

“I wish for you to spend time away from work,” Antok said. The man sighed behind his mask, his own arms crossing. “You’re stressed and tired, and I think even you miss the feasts and parties of Gal, no matter the Empire’s crimes.”

Kolivan didn’t have his mask on. Antok had full view of the deepening frown on his face. “The gheron always misses the herd. I feel no such need to return to Gal or its practices. They are tainted with the blood of generations--”

Antok hissed. “This is what I’m talking about.” Antok shook his head. “You’re talking yourself into abandoning even the things that have made you happy and harmed no one. Who has been hurt by the Moonbreak Festival? It has nothing to do with the Voice or the Emperor. Their crimes should not force us to abandon the good things of our heritage.”

Kolivan stared at Antok. His own shoulders slumped. “... I will not say that I do not miss those parts. I simply fear that the worst parts of the Galran soul spawn from the tainted culture that the Emperor has warped us into. I don’t know what the Moonbreak Festival was like before Zarkon, Antok, and that concerns me.”

Antok stepped from his post to stop in front of Kolivan’s desk. The hulking man leaned down, his mask still firmly in place. “All the more reason,” Antok said gently, “for us to remake the festival in our image. When Zarkon falls, we can bring our new ways back with us.” Antok offered a bare hand. “I promise you, Kolivan, that I only want this so I can see you smile.”


	12. AU | Hyladra, Kymin, and Keith at the Space Mall

“I want to go to the food court,” Hyladra said the instant they were in the lobby. 

Kymin sighed. “We just ate on the ship--”

“Yes, but that was poor food.” Hyladra stood on her tip-toes as patrons of the mall crept around her. Nobody wanted anything to do with an armored Galran soldier. “And we have plenty of money for better meals.”

“How hungry are you?” Keith asked. 

“Starving,” Hyladra replied.

Keith paused, lips pursing. “On a scale of one to ten.”

“...A five.” Hyladra’s lips curled into a pout.

“Let’s see part of the mall before we eat, then.” There were hundreds of stores on the colony. Shaped in a ring, it had three levels to it; surrounding the mall were other satellites where workers and their families lived. Koiyana Mall was a strange place to Keith, though he supposed if someone was going to work at a space mall, they’d prefer to live close by. The system Koiyana floated in intersected a dozen different trade routes. Hyladra considered it a mecca of commerce and luxury.

“I want to visit the spas,” Kymin said as they walked past a stall decorated in commemorative towels, keychains, shirts, and cups. Their designs ranged from heroic poses of Zarkon to religious holidays all the way to advertising having visited Koiyana Mall.

Keith stopped and bought a Zarkon shirt. The man would be annoyed beyond words when Keith wore it to a casual dinner. Gryva wouldn’t approve, but then he’d simply smuggle the shirt into the dinner with him and put it on in the bathroom.

Hyladra shook her, grinning, as he paid for the shirt. He looked at her, a brow raised. “No,” she said, “I don’t want one. Only you can get away with that. “

Kymin eyed a mug. His worn face still carried the lines from the Sorrowsingers, and his every movement came slow and deliberate, but he smiled when Keith grinned at him. They were, for now, away from the Galra Empire, even if they were symbols of it on Koiyana.

Zarkon’s ship travelled into a distant system to deal with affairs of state. “I feel it would be inappropriate and risky to bring you with me,” Zarkon had told him. “However, leaving you on Gal would be worse. Thus, my compromise.”

Kymin and Hyladra were his pleasant, friendly wardens. Running would get both of them hurt, if not killed. Plus, he still didn’t have the Red Lion. It waited for him on Gal. He tried to ignore that by peering into open shops. One shop was devoted completely to alien robots, drones, and computer hardware. Kymin fussed over a drone that looped around the ceiling. Someone had painted a face on it. “What if it crashes?” he fretted, and Keith couldn’t help but buy it for him. 

The cashier put it in a padded box and gave it to Kymin with only a slight cringe. “Have a good day,” she said, and Kymin barely acknowledged her as he examined the clasp and hinges of the box lid. Keith took Kymin by the arm and led him from the line, tossing back a quick  _ you too _ before Kymin perked up.

“It won’t crack open if jostled,” Kymin declared to everyone around him. 

Hyladra hid a snort with a cough. Keith couldn’t resist a smile as he spoke. “Good, then let’s check out more stores--” And then he saw it. He gaped at the sign, all words forgotten.

TERRA FIRMA a blinking blue sign said. A cow-- a real, live, flesh and blood cow--chomped on grass in the window. Something sparked in Keith’s brain. It fizzled. Then his entire body exploded into action. “ _ Holy fucking _ \--”

“ **Keith** ,” Hyladra hissed, scandalized. She grabbed him by the arm. Children were staring. Mothers gasped, scandalized. “What is it? Did you see a Clarion?”

Kymin leaned in. “I think security is coming,” he whispered. He knocked back his hood and stood straight. His Galra features were on display. More people pulled away from them.

“That’s my planet,” he said, hushed. He pointed at the shop. “Kymin, that’s a cow. That’s the animal I keep talking about with gheron.” There were MacBooks on display. He thought he saw a PS4. Children’s snacks, like Mars Bars and Snickers, were neatly lined up in a display case. 

Kymin squinted at the cow. “...That looks like an odd creature. It also looks nothing like a gheron--”

“Sir,” one of the security officers asked from his floating moped. “Is everything all right here?” Short and round, what stood out most to Keith was the look of awe on his face. “I don’t mean to trouble the Empire’s glorious soldiers, but I’ve received complaints.”

Kymin shook his head. “My companion had a moment of shock about the creature in that window.” He pointed at the cow, which continued munching away on a pile of grass. “Your vigilance is appreciated, but I, Kymin of the Yexin, promise you that all of us will behave.”

The security officer didn’t vanish as they headed into the shop. He milled around the outside, as though still starstruck. Keith’s attention turned away from him as the wealth of his home planet became evident. New releases for games that he knew came out after he’d left Earth were on display. He saw a Pikachu plush dressed in Halloween clothes. He ended up by the cow and touched its flank. The warm flesh under his hand was unfamiliar: he’d never touched a cow’s body before, though he’d touched the nose once. He’d been in rural Ontario for a race. One cow had hung out at the fences, mooing at anyone who passed. Keith had been high on the thrill of victory and had come over to pet it.

Cows were… soft. Gentle. This one wasn’t different as it continued to eat, oblivious to the human-Galra that touched it. “What’s its name?” he heard Hyladra ask as she poked and prodded at a stack of comic books. 

“Kaltenecker,” the strange grey alien who ran the shop said. Kaltenecker was the most beautiful cow Keith had ever seen. It hurt to abandon the cow, but Kymin and Hyladra were investigating every bit of the shop.

“What is a spiderman?” Hyladra asked. “Is he a hybrid?” She frowned at the comic’s cover. “He doesn’t  _ look _ like a spider.”

Who knew how spider translated from Galran? Keith had never seen a spider at the Palace, but maybe they were simply arachnid-like. “He’s a teenager who got bit by a radioactive spider.”

Hyladra looked up from the comics. “...Radiation does not do that,” she said flatly.

“It was written while we didn’t know much about radiation, and the concept sort of stuck.” He dug through the pile of comics. Some looked old as dirt, even if they were in good condition. They’d fetch hundreds, if not thousands, back on Earth. “You’d like this one.” He offered her a Wonder Woman comic.

Hyladra’s gold eyes brightened as she opened it. “The inside isn’t translated,” she said, visibly disappointed. The covers of each comic had been labelled by a filing system. Keith didn’t know why the alien owner would be selling comics nobody could read. Maybe some customers just liked the art.

He took the comic from her and put it in a basket he’d picked up. “I’ll translate it for you,” he promised. He turned to see Kymin toying with candy. An idea struck him, then, and he sidled over. A container of Pop Rocks was on the counter. “You should try that.” He tapped the container with a forefinger.

Kymin perked up. “Is it sour?”

“More sour than you can believe,” Keith said. “Tart, sour, and slightly sweet. Go for it-- just take a handful, if you want. I’ll pay for it.” Kymin took a handful. Keith tried not to grin as Kymin tilted his head back, opened his mouth, and shoved in a fistful of Pop Rocks. A few grains fell from Kymin’s grip. The A/C of the mall caught the dust and blew it away. Keith stared as a grin broke out on his face.

Kymin  _ yowled _ like an injured cat. The Pop Rocks snapped and fizzed in his mouth. Kymin danced around as he reached into his mouth and scraped. His ears twitched and twirled like they were parts of a pinwheel. Hyladra gasped as Kymin spat out part of the Pop Rocks. 

“ _ Keith _ !” she almost wailed. She bolted to Kymin’s side. “Is he dying?” 

Kymin’s watery eyes laser-focused on Keith, who could still hear the remnants of the Pop Rocks. “ _ You _ ,” he choked out. A Pop Rock crackled on Kymin’s lip, and he jumped again, ears twitching. He didn’t back away when Keith came close.

“It’s okay,” he said. “You’re okay.” It’d been funny as hell, but-- “I’m sorry. I couldn’t resist after so long of being the weird outsider.” He brushed away some of the candy from Kymin’s fur. “I promise not to do that again.”

“You eat that,” Hyladra wondered, “as  _ candy _ ?”

“Kids love it.” Keith grimaced at the mess on the floor. He ran his hands up and down Kymin’s arms, and the Galra seemed to relax. “Most people don’t care for them since they’re sour, but I know you guys like that stuff.”

Kymin let out a shuddering breath. “They did taste good,” he admitted. “The sensation was bad, though.”

“It’s an uncomfortable one, yeah.” He looked at the shop keeper. “Do you have a mop? I can clean this up while they keep looking at things. I’ll pay you for the candy too.”

The alien looked amazed. “I didn’t know they did that,” he said. “Just a moment, sir, for the mop.” He scuttled into the back, leaving Keith to look at Kymin and Hyladra.

“If you guys have questions,” Keith said, “just ask me. I can even show you some video games after I’ve cleaned. Then we can get some food-- Galran food.”

Kymin heaved out a sigh. “I don’t want to know what human lunches are like,” he muttered darkly.


	13. AU - Gen - swimming space cats

“No,” Volux said.

Keith stood in the ocean’s shallows, where the waves’ foam washed against his legs. “Then don’t come. You can bake on the beach and get badgered by hungry birds. Hyladra, you’re interested?”

Hyladra wore an animal skin over her fur. It wrapped around her hips and chest, though a gap of her stomach was visible. The skin had been stripped of fur and polished to a shiny leather. Hyladra hung a lanyard over her neck. Attached to the centre, a capsule rested on Hyladra’s collarbone. 

“I want to learn,” she said and eyed Volux. “The Druid’s concerns are… understandable. But as a Hani and soldier, I need to know how to swim.” She grimaced. “Even if it involves water.”

He held out a hand that she took. “It’s not that bad. Water’s all over the place where I’m from. You’ll enjoy it-- it’s more relaxing than fighting, and cooler than dancing.”

Hyladra didn’t look too convinced. “You’ve never swum with fur, have you?”

“No.” Keith gave her a small smile. “But it can’t be that bad. We’re not going in deep. Just enough to get you splashing around and figuring out how it all works. In an hour, we’ll have you swimming around like a fish.”

Hyladra laughed. She stepped into the small waves. She bit off a squeal when the tide rushed in; it only reached her ankles, but she danced back, away from the foam. “It’s so  _ cold _ !”

“Only because you’re not used to it.” He tugged her back into the water. “Focus on me. Your body will adjust.” He got her up to her knees before she stopped. Volux watched them from a towel on the shore. They’d curled up with a book, even though they wore a similar bathing suit to Hyladra. 

“How does it feel?” he asked.

Hyladra released his hand to lean down and touch her fingerpads to the smooth ocean surface. “Cold.” She shrugged. “A little bit… weird. I’ve taken baths and showers before, when I got truly dirty, but neither were like this.”

“It’s more complete, I know. Just a little further, and you can float. I’ll make sure nothing happens, okay?” 

She trusted him. When they reached up to the waist, Keith let his feet slip out from under him. His fur smoothed out to the strange mermaid-like nature of human hair in water. The chilly water reached his skin in seconds. He hissed, but his body began to adjust. The water wasn’t winter-cold, but instead the nip of a cool spring breeze. Compared to the rest of Gal, it probably felt like ice to Hyladra.

She mirrored his action, though. He caught her before she flopped against her knees. Her ears twitched and wobbled and she breathed heavily, as though forcing herself to endure the cold. 

The lessons he shared were quick tips and demonstrated motions. Galran legs were strange and far more awkward than human ones. The doggy paddle worked better than the butterfly for Hyladra.

“It feels so weird,” she told him as she paddled by. “Like I’m in space without gravity stabilizers.”

Keith grinned. “It’s satisfying, isn’t it?” He stroked through the water around her. His legs were terrible to push him along, but his arms were muscular enough to make up for it. A little tide spawned from where he swam. It made Hyladra bob in the water. He braced himself for the idea to strike her.

She eyed him for a moment before her arms burst forward. Ocean sprayed into his nose, eyes, and mouth. He spat and sputtered while Hyladra howled. “You can’t do it back! I’m still learning how to swim--”

He dove at her and she screamed. Their limbs tangled together as they struggled for supremacy. Hyladra slipped a few times on the sandy bottom, but her claws didn’t shy away from digging into his skin. 

They ended with a truce. Keith whispered something to Hyladra, whose eyes widened. “Volux!” she cried out. “Volux, I think I cut my foot.”

“And that’s why you shouldn’t have gone in!” Volux dragged themselves to their feet. “Get out of the water and I’ll fix it. As though I don’t have better things to do.”

They met at the shore. Hyladra waited in the lapping tides. Volux crouched down to take a look at her foot. “Get a bit further out-- I think it’s washing away the blood.”

“Is it?” she asked. She and Keith grabbed Volux by the bare arms and dragged them into the water. They fell face-first into the ocean. “Run!”

They bolted deeper into the ocean as Volux found their feet. “ **You** \--” Volux staggered after them. Their fur stood on end, similar to their upright ears. Their voice took on a spitting hissing quality. “I’m going to  _ kill _ both of you!”

“Not if we get in deep enough,” Hyladra said, voice sing-song.


	14. AU - Zeith - fluff!

He stared at the jungle outside the car window. It didn’t feel  _ real _ . Gal’s deserts covered most of the planet, and while he’d known, intellectually, that they were going to the coasts, he hadn’t realized how different it’d be. The vivid purple leaves, mixed with splashes of green, shivered and shook as winds blew between the trees. He glanced at Zarkon, his eyes narrowing.

“This is why you had us take the car, isn’t it?”

Zarkon smirked over his tablet. His eyes were glued to the text, as they had been for the past six hours. “There is a reason we’ve slowed, yes.”

Keith frowned at the window. They’d been going maybe two hundred miles an hour before, but they’d slowed to a leisurely pace, allowing Keith a perfect view to ogle the outdoors. The roads were lonely--they hadn’t seen a soul since leaving Vrikka, and Keith suspected only the military used the highway. Or maybe the military had cleared the route for Zarkon’s passage.

A hand brushed against his back. “I apologize if you find it presumptuous, Keith. You’ve simply mentioned before that you find the deserts and barrenness strange, and I thought it might be comforting for you to see that Gal isn’t so different.”

Gal was strange in how much desert it had. Most planets had diverse geography, but all Gal had seemed to have were volcanic deserts, normal deserts, and scrubland. He’d known from others that there were lush coastal forests, but they were weird to look at it. Like they didn’t truly belong, or came from realms far beyond the one mortals lived in.

“It’s beautiful,” he admitted. “Just a bit odd to see after so long in the desert. It’s like this from here to the ocean, then?”

“There are spots of hills and fields where we’ve cleared the forest, but yes. Most of it is like this. The Galra here are spoiled by water and food, and you’ll be invited to many feasts and parties.” Zarkon laughed. “Knowing you, you’ll hate it. But I promise you’ll find only relaxation and time to breathe at the castle.”

Keith blinked. “ _ Castle? _ ”

“Less grand than the Palace, but still quite nice. It was built in the time of Great Heroes and was gifted to me when I became the Black Paladin.” Zarkon tapped at hit tablet and offered it to Keith. The ‘castle’ looked like a fortified villa, all white and airy. “I enjoy spending some time there, away from the Palace and Central Command. It’s right by the beach as well, though I don’t tend to swim.”

Keith fell back into his seat. His eyes were still pinned to Zarkon. “... It’s beautiful. The closest I’ve come to anything like it are pictures in magazines.” Keith shook his head. “And it’s near the forests?”

“The back is a veritable jungle, though far more tame than what you can see now. There’s even a pond full of gentle fish. When they take a liking to someone, they’ll start to greet you like a pet.” Zarkon grinned at him, shameless and bright-eyed. He looked drunk on the possibilities of the villa. “And I can show you a herd of kralick.”

His heart skipped a beat. His interest in the animals was tempered by a reasonable fear. “So long as they don’t take a bite out of me, I want to see them.”

“Good,” Zaron said. “I’ll make sure they behave.”


	15. Canon - Fluff starring Gryva and Rime

“Don’t!” Rime’s tongue slathered over the wall of salt. “You awful little thing,” Gryva told it. She crouched down and reached for its stomach. Rime became elastic: its stomach pulled away, though its head and tongue remained glued to the wall. “Prince Caith! Your pet is misbehaving.” She frowned at Rime. Its unsettling green eyes were closed in pleasure. “Why does he even like you?”

The dendin chirped and purred. When Caith had made his excuses to the pair of Druids, he came over and scooped up the beast. It squirmed and wriggled before it gave up and flopped against his chest. Caith winced when he saw the damage to the wall. “At least it’s only coin-sized?” He stroked Rime’s back. “It can be filled with clay or plastic.”

“No offense is meant, my Prince,” she said. “But I believe the dendin requires a leash for outings.”

Caith frowned at the little monster. Its facial tendrils reached up to brush against his fur. Gryva tried not to shudder. Dendin were strange animals, and their behaviour always managed to unsettle her. How Caith withstood it and then  _ praised _ the creature was beyond her. If she had her way, it would be in a cage or aquarium, brought out only at night for a quick bit of play and then sent back into its home under lock and key. 

“Are there leashes for dendin?” 

Gryva paused and frowned. “... I don’t believe so. We could have one custom made for the animal.” Evil green eyes contemplated her from a feathery face. Its tongue flicked out, tasting the air, and she forced back a shudder. How had the Prince even managed to charm such a creature into compliance? It rested limply in his arms, as though it had no cares or worries.

“A leash won’t work.” Caith traced the dendin’s form with a finger. “It’s too slim for that. It’ll just slither out or--worse--it’ll choke itself on the collar. Maybe a harness would be better. It could go around the limbs and under the chin.” Gryva stared as Caith tickled the dendin’s chin. ‘Rime’, as he called it, twitched and flailed but didn’t jump to the ground or run away.

It couldn’t be happy with his touches. Dendin were troublesome vermin, wild as a desert wind and full of sharp little teeth that bit Galran feet. She knew one lad who’d been bitten and never told his parents for fear they’d scold him for wandering cactus fields. He’d lost two toes to infection. Dendin were dirty creatures, and their mouths a veritable petri dish of disgusting things.

“I would offer to measure it for you, but I fear its teeth.” 

The Prince blinked at her. “Rime wouldn’t bite.” He pursed his lips. “Okay, it would. But never hard. You can work the measuring tape while I hold Rime in place? If it gets angry, it’ll be at me.”

She wouldn’t have to touch the creature. She could hold the tape an inch away and take rough measurements. And the Prince was right that the creature would likely direct its ire at him. “If it licks me,” she said tartly, “its harness will be made of thorns.”

“I’d prefer something blue,” Caith said, “but then I’m sure Rime’ll behave.” The creature had the audacity to lean from Caith’s arms and jab out its tongue to taste the air around her. Worse, it would have been  _ cute _ if not for the horrible green eyes.


	16. What happened to Wrin?

He hadn’t seen any of them in weeks. Wrin knew Keith couldn’t be dead: if the human was, the Emperor would have taken it out of Wrin’s flesh. If Thace was dead, his family would have told him. If the Druid had died, it would have been the end of Wrin’s life as well. And what of that strange cadet, Hyladra? They were of similar rank socially and militarily, but her loyalty would have made her worth more than him.

No, none of them were dead. Disposed? Sure. Something had happened to the outsider to keep him from the light of day. But none of that was Wrin’s business. He’d done enough damage to all involved. Whether he regretted contacting the Clarion or not, he didn’t know. What he did regret was getting caught.

When the attack on the Emperor was thwarted, the Sorrowsingers had come. They hadn’t needed to examine his mind. They did so anyway, leaving him with spasms and headaches that lasted for a full week, even through transport. Every inch of his fury and bitterness made it into reports on his condition. Not even Cecu Thace’s efforts had been enough to save him from the desert outpost. 

They hadn’t put him in chains for the trip. Wrin didn’t know what it meant. The door to his room had been locked, a cold reminder that he was a prisoner, but when he lay on his bunk with a tablet to read, he could almost forget the past months. 

He knew what Volux would say, or Keith, or even Hyladra. They’d accuse him of feeling no remorse, of being defective as a person, or someone worthy of death. Their hatred had never dulled, even when Wrin fed the outsider his own quintessence. They demanded he pay in blood, he thought, and then hated him when his insides boiled with fury.

No one visited him on the transport ship. Faint loneliness followed his thoughts like a shadow, but he refused to acknowledge it. None of it mattered. He’d be brought to the outpost to speak to ministering Druids so they could peel the hatred and spite off his soul and then he’d be ferried back to civilization, discharged under questionable circumstances. 

_ You should be dead _ , a traitorous voice whispered every time he thought of his fate.  _ You owe Thace your life _ .  _ And the others-- _

He’d thank Thace for what he’d done. It’d been costly to the man’s career to stick his neck out for Wrin as he did. And yet, for all the effort he spent thinking about what Thace had sacrificed and done for him, the hatred remained. As though Thace could have done anything more except killing Keith for him. “I wanted him dead,” Wrin said aloud. “He killed my brother.” And he’d taken the attention and congratulations that belonged to Galra cadets. Keith should have been despised by every Galra he met. Yet, when he met them, the Galra walked away strangely charmed, as though the emerald blood on his hands didn’t matter.

It did, though. Keith had killed thousands of Galra. Why was Wrin the only one who spat at him, then?

The traitorous voice returned.  _ There were. They just didn’t fuck up like you did. _

From the freighter, they brought him to a small ship. The small ship entered the atmosphere with Wrin in cuffs. A pair of guards were to either side of him, and the pilot chattered away, filling a gaping silence. She spoke about recent society gossip, a movie she’d seen, even her brother’s children. It didn’t help his headache. He slumped and closed his eyes.

When they arrived at the outpost, it looked as grim as the rumours said. The houses were burrowed into little dune hills, while the town was encircled by a high stone fence. Massive amounts of sand had been blown against the walls’ outsides, almost to the very top. The criminals-- _ reformers _ was the kind word for them--would be sent out soon to clean the walls. Trucks, tents, and boxed supplies were in the middle. 

“I hope for your sake,” the pilot said when they landed in the outpost, “that you won’t be here for long.”

The Druids greeted him as a trio. They wore their dark robes and white masks, from which their bright gold eyes watched him with clinical interest. “Wrin of the Naami. We welcome you to where you will become the Galra you were meant to be.”

Wrin didn’t smile, nor did he nod. “Where do I sleep?”

The Druids didn’t murmur among themselves, but they allowed a long, pregnant pause. “Follow Druid Eila.” One of them stepped forward and nodded at Wrin. From there, it was a quick trip to one of the dug-in houses. A complex of tunnels connected everything together. Guards waited at every entrance. The prisoners,  _ reformers _ , were a grim and gloomy group. They sat around, quiet, and stared out at walls.

Wrin discovered why the day after. The Druids summoned him half-way through the morning’s duties. He was brought to a stone room filled with placid bowls of river water. They sat him in the centre as a half dozen Druids surrounded him. A lone one stood behind him. Close your eyes, they said. Do not move.

The Voice spoke to him, Her voice rattling his dulled mind to life and agony.  _ Why did you forsake me? Was your anger and vengeance worth turning your back on who you were? When you close your eyes, and my blessing of sleep reaches you, what do you dream of? _

The Voice knew him more than he knew himself. When he woke from the trance, guards returned him to the house’s room. He stared at the wall, the Voice’s words still following him. The Druids summoned him again the following day. He closed his eyes, and the Voice entered him.

He saw the suffering of other Galra. A woman died of starvation on a far-off planet. A soldier marched against a fleet of insectoid ravagers, and was torn limb from limb. He lived their final moments inside their skin. As he died, again and again, the Voice spoke to him.  _ These people died for you. You repaid them by turning your back on them. _

He woke vomiting. The quintessence the Voice gave him frizzled in aftershocks. The Druids shepherded him to one of the recovery rooms and the watcher pretended not to notice when he started crying. When the temple-tenders arrived to clear out the room, none asked if he was all right.

Visions plagued his sleep. A child drowned after they searched for starfish in the deeper waters. A man hung himself in his bedroom, far from family and friends. Wrin watched as a man coughed and coughed and coughed until blood speckled the marble floors and his lungs wheezed, desperate for air, but nobody could help.  _ Someone get a doctor _ , one of the Galra shouted. 

Wrin’s insides lit like a fire. Blood and melted flesh filled his throat and lungs. His thundering heart struggled to beat. He tried toshout as his knees cracked against the dancefloor. No sound came out. His vision darkened to a cloudy grey, and then blackened like ash. 

He woke in the morning to the outpost’s bells. The Druids would summon him in three hours. Some of the newer arrivals wept in their beds. Wrin ignored them as he dressed and went to collect his shovel to tend to the walls. 

The dreams followed him like a shadow.


	17. The Past | Zeith | AU

“Do you miss it?” Keith asked over a meal of meat and insects. A special platter of bread had been laid out for Keith--a sign of Zarkon’s respect, as bread cost dearly to make in a climate like the Vrikkan province’s. 

Zarkon plucked the wings from a lumpy bug. “I’m not sure what you mean, dearest.”

“The past.” Keith removed the tops from the buns  and ate the soft insides. His growing pile of bun tops were occasionally slathered with gheron butter or cactus fruit preserves and then eaten. Everything, to Keith, had a place and time.

Zarkon tested the bug for ripeness. The servant who’d collected the batch from the conservatory had chosen well. They’d need a personal thanks--a note, perhaps, or a message from their superior. “There’s little to miss. I have preserved what I could, Keith, and the rest has been gifted to time’s graveyard.”

Zarkon read what Keith truly wanted to ask in his expression.  _ What about your family and friends? _ Zarkon didn’t know if the question came from concern or a more mercenary inclination. Keith was difficult to predict. 

“You want to know about those I once called friends and those who were tied to me by blood.”

Keith frowned, almost grimacing. “I don’t want to overstep--”

“You aren’t. If I thought it wouldn’t make you uncomfortable, I might commend your bravery. Many have almost asked the same question. A few have voiced it.” Zarkon put the bug down and moved to the next. It busied his hands while his mind figured out how to speak to Keith about it. Keith had learned to see things in greys, but he still clung to attachments. The greater good meant something, but it didn’t mean enough to let someone like Hyladra die.

“Some didn’t wish to live forever. There wasn’t enough quintessence to spare to keep hundreds alive, and most didn’t wish to live without their lovers or friends.” Zarkon looked Keith in the eyes as he spoke. There was no angst over what he spoke about. He’d come to terms with it all long ago. “Then there were the long years of work and suffering ahead. While the world has become far more peaceful under the Empire’s influence, there were invasions and great upheavals on the horizon for the universe at the time. If you could live forever, knowing that you will have to be a soldier and guardian for the rest of your life, would you?”

Keith’s brow furrowed as his lips pursed. “... Of those that stayed, how many are still here?”

“One,” Zarkon said. “A few died in combat. Most asked for release. The remaining one has lost her mind. Mortals weren’t designed to live for ten thousand years. She lives in fragments of what once was. She’s been like this for the past four thousand years.” He shook his head. “The quintessence keeping her alive is a pittance, and I cannot find it inside me to stop it.” Relief became visible on Keith’s face. Zarkon didn’t feel it: he knew, if Kilaen was still present, there was a strong chance she’d tell him to let her go. But what if she didn’t want to die? It wasn’t his place to make the choice for her. So he let her live in comfort and hoped for her mind to heal.

Keith reached out and touched his arm. “And you’re--?”

“I’ve had ten thousand years to come to terms with what’s happened, Keith.” Zarkon touched Keith’s warm hand, though. “Your concern is appreciated, dearest, but those who have died live on in the Chorus, and their affections still bind the pieces of my spirit together.”

Keith smiled a lopsided smile. Zarkon raised a brow. “You sound so weirdly  _ gentle _ . But I’m glad, even if I know I shouldn’t be. I won’t tell if you won’t.”

Zarkon smiled as the weight of ten thousand years lifted. “I can promise that.”


	18. Volux's Day Off | Canon

It was raining. For Volux, that usually meant work. Everyone wanted services and cleansings--everyone from the Emperor to high-ranking servants. The Palace never had enough Druids for them. Except, with the spectre of the Palace’s misfortunes like the Sorrowsingers and Prorok’s death, nobody wanted to hold parties. Likely they felt it’d earn them attention.

It meant, for Volux, time to use the Druids’ gardens. A little courtyard cut into the centre of the Palace, the glass roof retreated during storms. The rain nurtured the plants more than any filtered water the Palace sprayed over the greenery. Volux took a seat under a clear plastic awning, pulled out a book, and settled in for afternoon lessons on the history of shoes for Galra.

The Galra had spent a short eternity without shoes. Paws gripped rocks and dug into sand better than shoes. Insects were thwarted by the natural fur of Galran feet, and the pads were always thickened by use. It was when roads were being paved that shoes became common outside of places like the Ashwastes. Places like the Ashwastes used shoes because of common sharp rocks and almost-intolerably hot rock.

Volux wiggled their toes in their own shoes. The shoes were built to protect the pads while trying not to interfere with the paw’s structure. Even armoured boots followed that model. Galran feet were perfect as they were: small adaptations only enhanced the flawless decisions of nature. 

Volux was less enthusiastic about Galran physiology. History was history. It was the lifeblood of civilization. That Galra had adapted what they’d long seen as a ‘foreign’ influence which intrigued Volux. Fine thin sandals or plain cloth wraps were elegant at Zarkon’s court. Yet pre-space contact, it would have been considered a strange affectation. Even after contact, it was foreign strangeness.

The history of Gal’s shoemakers paralleled the Empire’s story. The hatred, the fear, the stigma, and then the eventual embrace of what could, in the end, make the Empire better. If Volux felt fanciful, they could compare it to the reception someone like the Paladin received, or how the Lions had been treated. The Lions were the result of several species’ work, handled mainly by the Alteans, but they’d been naturalized in Galran mythology to a sort of cultural birthright.

If they hadn’t been chosen as a Druid, maybe they would have been a historian. Far less dangerous than being a Druid, but still far from safe. Who the moods that the Empire’s censors, after all? More than a few historians had assumed safety and prodded around at things they shouldn’t have. Volux thought themselves wiser than that, though. They knew when to leave well enough alone.

A temple-tender came through with dumplings and beautiful spiced juices. He gave Volux the platter with a winsome smile. Whatever teacher had tutored them in temple charms had done well. Volux let their eyes linger on the tender’s muscled arms and told themselves that it was just judging the quality of the Palace’s staff.

The dumplings were crafted from a starchy flour that’d been steamed. It tasted sour--a sign of modernity in the Palace the Emperor would hate. The insides of the dumpling were rich and fatty meats and crushed seeds. The dumplings were decorated in grooves and coloured dyes. They were fair little sunsets that Volux picked apart with their claws.

It was going to be a good day.


	19. Space Mall CONT: Disney Movie Time!

Hyladra and Kymin didn’t know what to make of The Lion King. “They have manes like the Pira,” Hyladra said, staring at the DVD cover. “I knew about Altean lions, but these are different.” She frowned, the tips of her fangs sticking over her bottom lip. “Those aren’t forests.”

Keith bit back a laugh. His teeth almost went through his tongue. “Lions on Earth live in savannahs. They like to live under trees for the shade.”

“They dig?” Kymin asked. He squinted at Simba. “Their claws are poorly suited to it--”

“No, no.” Keith sighed. “They just live at the base.” Though they did live in little caves in zoos, but those were zoos. He’d never seen lions digging on BBC or Animal Planet. “They live in, uh, prides. Packs.”

“And they speak? Or is that a film… liberty?” Hyladra traced Zazu’s beak. “What a strange and colourful creature!”

“Lions don’t. A few animals can do non-verbal languages? And there are birds who can speak human languages. But Zazu--the colourful creature--is the wrong kind of bird. They don’t talk.” Keith handed the case over to Hyladra, whose fingers kept tracing the animation.

“It’s so green,” she said. She sounded only a bit unsettled. “The sunset is lovely, but I can’t imagine being in a land of something like this.” She shuddered.

Kymin had surrounded himself in a wall of pillows that he sprawled on. “The pictures are stranger. They’re hideously blunt. You said this was for children, didn’t you, Keith? What does adult animation look like?”

The same. “A bit less round, but I’m pretty sure you’d find it just as strange.” The DVD player had whirred to life a while ago. Using the remote control, he hit play. “... I wonder if this has Galran subtitles.”

“Probably not.” Hyladra tossed the DVD case on the table in front of them. “I don’t think these are copies of Earth material. I think they  _ are _ Earth material.”

Blessedly, Hyladra was wrong. A few clicks, and what looked like Galran popped up along the bottom of the screen. Kymin jerked from his repose on the pillows. Hyladra leaned forward as though she was about to go through the screen. Their gold eyes, brilliant and shining, pinned to the animation.

“It’s so  _ round _ ,” Kymin said, his nose scrunching up. “And Terran sounds… odd.”

Hyladra gave Kymin a sharp look. “It’s pretty! Very, ah,  earthy.  Harsh like a desert wind. Your race has a beautiful language, Keith.”

Keith felt a headache building. “Thank you,” he said, “but they’re speaking German, which I’m not fluent in.”

Hyladra blinked. “Oh. Yes, your people have many tongues, don’t they?”

“Thousands.” Keith flopped against the couch. He could try to find an English track, but he wasn’t actually sure he wanted to hear it in English. Sure, he wouldn’t understand the movie without it, but he’d seen the movie in English before and, frankly, he didn’t want to deal with more homesickness.

The opening musical number had Hyladra gasping. Kymin looked mesmerized  _ and _ scandalized. “The sunset is so beautiful,” Hyladra said. Kymin said something about the song being too airy and smooth. When the green plains dominated the screen, Hyladra jumped in her seat. She turned to Keith, opened her mouth to speak, and then looked back at the screen, as though she didn’t want to miss a moment. “Your world was like this?”

“Are there cows in this movie?” Kymin asked suddenly. “There are so many animals--” He cut off as zebras came on screen. “ _ Cows?! _ ”

His headache got worse. He paused the movie as elephants stomped onto the screen. “Not cows. Zebra. They’re--” God, how did he even explain it? “We don’t use them for transport or milk. They’re just wild animals.” He imagined the people who lived around zebras may have eaten them, but he didn’t know for certain. “This movie takes place far from where I lived. This is somewhere in Africa, a huge continent much warmer than Canada.”

Hyladra looked disappointed. “So you don’t have zebras or those long-nosed grey creatures where you live?”

“Outside of zoos, no.” Even Kymin looked a bit let down. Instinct rose to defend Canada, but saying he lived in a country with polar bears and moose meant nothing when he’d never seen those outside of zoos either.  _ Sorry my homeland’s a disappointment _ , he thought. The closest film that he could play off as set in Canada was Bambi, and did he really want to inflict Bambi’s mom dying on the two?  Lady and the Tramp was somewhere Midwest in the US, which he could pass off as sort of Canadian, but then there were the Siamese cats. He didn’t want to talk about racism in Disney movies with either of them. It was too personal.

The only other Disney movie classic that featured winter was One Hundred and One Dalmatians. He dug through the DVD pile until he found it. “This one might be interesting. It’s not set in Canada, but it has winter, which we have?”

Kymin’s face lit up. “Winter?”

“When it snows and gets cold. And the animals-- they look like cows.” Sort of. “We can watch this movie and then I can show you One Hundred and One Dalmatians. The main characters aren’t human, though. They’re dogs, a type of pet that we keep. And yeah, the movie takes artistic liberties with them speaking.” 

Kymin looked sold just by virtue of the dalmatians looking cow-ish. Hyladra took some convincing, but when the movie started up again, she was spellbound. Keith ignored the movie, not being able to understand the audio or subtitles, and focused on the pair to either side of him. Hyladra adored Timon and Pumba, while Kymin nodded along whenever wetblanket Zazu spoke.

“Scar is like the Traitor King,” Hyladra said during Scar’s big number. “So arrogant, and such a poor ruler! He’s not even a warrior.”

“Well, he must have fought once.” Kymin traced over his own face where Scar’s scar was. “Not that he was successful, but there is honour in trying.”

Hyladra waved a dismissive hand. “If he wanted to be king, he should have fought the bigger lion. I hope the little lion kills him and retakes his father’s crown.”

Reviews were mixed for Rafiki. To Hyladra, he was a colourful Druid, admirable and wise. Kymin looked away as she extolled Rafiki’s loyalty to Mufasa. Because it had to be loyalty for him to speak so sincerely and care so much about Simba’s fate. Mufasa was swiftly compared to the Emperor, though, she noted, the Emperor was too clever and wily to be caught off-guard like Mufasa had been.

The hyenas were despised. Hyladra and Kymin debated who the hyenas were like. The Olta? The Jine? Either way, they were lacking in character, even if they had the grace to be warriors. They were better than Scar, but only just. 

Even Simba eventually earned their ire. What proper warrior shirked duty? Even if he’d returned eventually, it was Nala who they both declared admiration for. She was powerful, moral, and upstanding. “She should be queen,” Kymin said. Hyladra agreed between mouthfuls of sugary candy.

The battle between Scar and Simba was treated as a grim necessity. Hyladra kept asking about Nala. Kymin shrugged when Scar finally died. The boredom only ended when they saw Nala as queen. There was confusion, however, on why Simba seemed to take precedence.

“The big lion was his father, yes,” Hyladra said, “but Nala was the one who fetched him and helped turn the kingdom against Scar. The little lion should receive honours, but his failings aren’t gone.” 

Kymin nodded. “He lost his right when he needed the Druid creature to tell him his duty.” Kymin’s eyes narrowed and he looked to Keith. “There are always sequels. What does the little lion do in it?”

He suspected telling the truth wouldn’t improve their opinions on Simba.


	20. Zeith Canon | Tea Spirits

The drink wasn’t salty, and Keith thanked whatever deities still cared about him for that. It tasted like cinnamon and clove, mixed together in a milky froth. Cradling the cup in his hands, he breathed in the scent. No salt, no weird earthiness, just Galran hot chocolate. When he took a sip, the smooth liquid warmed him to his footpads.

Zarkon laughed, his own mug untouched. “I thought you might like shuan. It’s a favourite among those who live by the Fogged Rivers.” He swirled a spoon in his mug, his purple eyes glinting with interest. “It’s made from leaves, berries, and bark--along with gheron milk, of course. Unfermented, usually, but some prefer to get drunk off it. It helps with the Rivers’ cold.”

Keith perked up. “Cold? I wasn’t really aware that Gal  _ had _ cold areas.”

“It’s a relative thing, dearest. We are made for the desert. The Fogged Rivers are along the warm coast, but far to the north. Far enough that the waters chill, and the terrain becomes wild. To your human form, it might be a breezy day--but to a species built for the desert, it feels like walking through a wintery planet. Those that live there make their fortunes on lumber, furs, and fish. Similar to the Glimmering Coast’s fortune, but much less hospitable.”

Keith took a guess and assumed the Fogged Rivers were populated by the less fortunate. Only the poor and desperate would go there to make their fortunes. Keith frowned down at his drink. “... Sounds pretty bad.” He took another sip of the drink and tried to ignore any sort of guilt. “So they made this drink to keep themselves warm?”

“Part warmth,” Zarkon said, “and part superstition.” He tapped the rim of his mug. The light  _ ting _ punctuated the silence. “They believe that the spirits of the wilds live on in the drink. I believe they’re called shuwa, but more colloquially ‘tea spirits’.”

Keith stared at the light coffee-coloured liquid.  _ Tea spirits _ . He imagined Earth creatures dancing in the steam, like watching clouds and seeing shapes in them. The superstition of the Galra had become infamous to him, and he knew tea spirits didn’t exist. Yet something in him wanted to believe in some small piece of magic. “What do they look like?” 

Zarkon laughed. “It depends on the season,” he said, “the animals in the area, the weather, even those that harvested the ingredients and drink the tea. Some tea spirits are fish; others are lumbering creatures of teeth and claw, or even wisp-fen that arise from the drink’s steam. By drinking, you imbibe the qualities of the tea spirit for a time.”

“Do you know what tea spirit they’d think was in this?” Keith stirred his own drink, as though hopeful that a tea spirit would spring from the steam and parade around for his amusement. The childish inclination was stomped on. He released the spoon and returned his gaze to Zarkon.

“I never thought to ask,” Zarkon mused. “But from my ignorance, my heart says a lion.”


	21. Hyladra meets Team Voltron | AU

He’d left her on a little sofa by a tank of fish. Air conditioning whirred through the vents, almost a roar in the silence of the Castle. She’d forgone the uniform. It meant nothing now, though the anger it might arouse did mean something. Instead, she wore a sweater for the cold Castle halls, a heavy skirt, and boots. If not for her body, she might have been a dowdy sophomore. Give her a coffee, Keith thought, and she’d fit into a seminar at any college.

The rest of Voltron waited a room down. A simple knock on the door, and he heard Lance bolt to his feet. “She’s here!” he crowed. “Do you think she has a tail?”

“Lance,” Hunk said, “please don’t hit on her--”

“I can’t blame myself if she’s charmed by me, Hunk.” The door swung open and Lance strode out, cocksure and smug. “Between the meatheads in the army and Mr. Mullet, I don’t think she’s seen much  _ charm _ .”

Hunk looked agonized. He didn’t push it, though. Lance tended to become more stubborn that way. Behind the pair, Shiro peered over them, expression apprehensive. Pidge was to his side, though Keith didn’t realize that until Hunk and Lance passed. Allura and Coran took up the rear. If Shiro looked apprehensive, the two Alteans were paralyzed with anxiety. Keith had claimed Hyladra was one of the  _ good _ Galra. Was it true? After what Zarkon had done, was that even possible?

Keith couldn’t reassure them with anything but a weak smile. If they didn’t like Hyladra, he didn’t know what he was going to do. He hurried after Lance, then, and braced himself for the overly cheerful and ingratiating  _ hi there _ Lance usually gave girls.

Lance leaned over Hyladra, a smile at his lips and a leer on his face. “You’re beautiful,” he told her, as though that statement was a gift from the gods. He held out his hand, which Hyladra stared at. “I’m Lance, the Blue Paladin. Keith never said how beautiful you were.”

“... I see.” Hyladra touched her fingers to his and pulled away. Lance’s smile cracked a bit, confusion filling his eyes. “And you--you’re the Yellow Paladin, Hunk, aren’t you?”

Hunk puffed up a bit. “Keith told you about us?”

“Not enough to be a traitor,” she said, “but enough that I can recognize each of you.” She pointed at Pidge. “Green Paladin.” Her finger lifted to point at Shiro’s face. “And the Black Paladin, along with the… Alteans.” Hyladra’s breathing hitched.

Coran smiled brightly and waved. He radiated strain. Allura’s hands were folded in front of her as she bowed. “We welcome you to the Castle of Lions,” she said in that ringing, grand voice she affected for outsiders. “While our people have been at war for millennia, I hope that you find peace among us.”

“Hrk,” Hyladra managed. Her ears were straight up, while her eyes were dinner plates. Allura cocked her head to the side, her brows furrowing.

Lance scrutinized Hyladra. “Uh, is she all right?”

Her eyes were glued to Allura, and Keith suspected that, beneath the fur, a bright blush would be visible on her skin.


	22. Zeith AU | Zarkon Is Tired

It was simultaneously the most ridiculous and stunning display Zarkon had ever seen. Keith--Keirin--swayed and twisted, forming shapes so unlike his usual movements. He’d learned the Tuvani temple-tender ways well. Should he reward Thace and Volux for it? He doubted they’d welcome the attentions. It left his enjoyment guilt-free. This cost him nothing, gained him much, and presented a charming tableau that he’d remember for a long time after.

“Sire,” Sendak said. “The forces are readying for the attack.” His single gold eye flicked from Zarkon’s back to the screen in front of thim. He didn’t dare say a word against Zarkon’s attentions, but Zarkon sensed the lingering disapproval. It was a time of war, and the dancer was Keith Kogane, Red Paladin and rebel. 

Zarkon searched for the energy to care, but found none. He was tired. Another attack, this time on his sanctum. The Clarion invasion had caused untold damage and chaos, and after ten thousand years, he found a bone-deep apathy. All he wanted to do was watch the Paladin dance. It was pretty, and it was ridiculous, and he’d not had either in a millennia. 

“Sire,” Sendak tried again. “Your forces require your attention.”

Zarkon eyed the Paladin’s willowy arms flail in the air. “No, they don’t.”

“Pardon my insolence, Sire, but I promise they need it more than the Paladin’s foolishness.” Sendak’s voice had a faint venom that Zaron admired. Few would dare speak to him like that but then few were so closely allied to him.

Zarkon tapped the camera controls and zoomed in on Keith. “I appreciate your and their efforts. However, I doubt the Paladin will be dancing again any time soon.”

“... There are recordings.”

“When you go to see a play, can you not admit that you’d rather see it live? The zest of life is carried in those moments.” Zarkon tapped the screen, right on the Paladin’s belly. “This is magic. Of all the things that have happened to me today, this is by far the best.”

Sendak frowned at the screen, his mirror reflected in the glass. “That, Sire, is a low bar.”

“But it still clears it.” Zarkon leaned back. Keith pranced about with the Clarion spy, their gestures wide and exaggerated. Keith crafted stars, the sun, even the moons. He ducked low, miming the rising of the sun; his arms spread out, claws glinting in the stage lights. “Even you have to admit he’s elegant.”

Sendak glowered at the image of Keith. “He’s an  _ enemy _ .”

“An ally of convenience,” Zarkon said, “if you can’t accept his new status.” Keith leapt on his new legs but he landed as though he’d walked on them for decades. Even his soldiers would be ashamed in the face of his daring grace.

Did Zarkon want Sendak to appreciate Keith? Maybe, he allowed. He saw Keith as a strange, ethereal ghost in the desert, something quicksilver, a trickster unaware of his own powers. Zarkon delighted in seeing what paths the Paladin’s mind took. Oh, some of those paths caused fury for Zarkon, but others were becoming softly tread. Inviting Sendak into his strange fascination… If Sendak embraced it, would he have competition? He looked at Sendak’s frown, and thought not.

“Send them out to break the Clarion,” Zarkon said. “When Keith finishes, I will follow.”


	23. Zeith | Canon | Fluffy | Languages!

“There used to be four sets of writing,” Zarkon told him.

Keith frowned at his tablet. “... There’s just one right now, right?”

“Just one,” Zarkon said. “I had it simplified when I became Emperor. But before, there was a set of writing for casual purposes, another for writing to superiors, a religious tongue, and a final set for the government.”

The sheer thought of learning four sets of alphabets--and presumably sentence structure, ways of address, and words--sent him into a flop on to the table. “ _ Why? _ ” The question needed elaboration, he knew, if only for the sake of appearances. “Why would you need so many sets of writing? How different were each of them? It sounds like a mess.”

Zarkon smiled at his own tablet. His fingers traced documents displayed on the screen. A little pen--little for Zarkon’s hand, at least--scratched his signature on to some of the pages. “It was considered a sign of respect to the order of the universe. To speak to your betters in the hand you would use for your brother or sister? No, it was inappropriate. Likewise, religion was to be shrouded in mysteries. One of those mysteries was decided, long ago, to be an indecipherable mess.”

Keith snorted. “I take it you didn’t know that alphabet?”

“I know it now, but at the start of my reign, no. The Druids know it as a second tongue. For myself, I knew the casual writing and writing for superiors. In adulthood, I learned the government hand--not by choice, but because I wished to get somewhere in my military career.”

“But you never liked it.”

Zarkon laughed. “I felt similarly to how you do now:  _ frustrated _ . What a pointless waste of time, I marvelled. Millions of languages were available to learn, yet I had to learn four in my own tongue? I would have much preferred to learn four non-native languages. And each form, I promise, were their own languages. Speaking to superiors demanded permanent passive voice, a lack of reference to self, different verb tenses and even words. For example, we would call an outpost  _ kva _ regularly, but for speaking to a superior?  _ Niva _ . In the religious hand, it would be  _ benva _ . And in government texts, it was  _ gha _ .”

So four words for each concept, not even counting synonyms. Keith felt his life draining from his body at the concept of learning Old Galran. “What language--form, I guess--did you base Modern Galran on?”

“A mix of government and regular language,” Zarkon said with a shrug. “Using the religious language would have scandalized people as much as the change did. By my time, the Galra were far from the most devout to the old gods, but it was a matter of tradition. As for the manner of speaking to superiors, that was itself a disaster. It was a wasteful display of mindless obsequiance, and I wouldn’t inflict it on any other soul. I suspect I’m the only remaining soul who speaks it natively.”

Keith’s lips twitched. “And if you could forget it, you would?”

“If only,” Zarkon murmured. He picked up a small pastry and eyed the sky-blue sphere. “The language is necessary for some documents I still have, as well as for historical purposes. As much as I hate it and prefer that it’d never been devised, it speaks to how tied to our ranks we once were.” Still, there was a deep frown to his features now, and Keith found himself leaning in to nudge Zarkon.

“Once,” he reminded Zarkon. It earned him a small smile.


	24. Zarkon POV | Canon | Reflections & Hip Hop

It started with a strange juddering of the limbs. Zarkon stared as Keith’s limbs locked and sprung free, startling Hyladra. She leaned in as his limbs turned liquid, waving like the tides or the falling crest of sand. His hips swayed and swung--familiar to Zarkon, if only for popular dance crazes that washed over the Empire. But Keith’s sway was…  _ sinuous _ , sensual, almost scandalous.

Zarkon leaned in, squinting at the image. Keith sprung from his writhing into a series spins and leaps. His legs sailed upward, spiralling around his head as he let his body fall. Only the strength of a single hand kept him from crashing to the ground. His legs were like a windmill, dangerous to bystanders yet controlled enough that they coiled under him again to help him rise for another series of bounces.

Hyladra was delighted. She tended to be with the Paladin, he mused. Sometimes, in his darker moments, he scolded himself for being so intrigued by Keith, but Hyladra’s behaviour was a reassurance that he wasn’t  _ completely _ lost yet. She adored him: he was a friend, a confidante, and a strange sideshow full of surprises.

Keith came to a stop and hunched to pant. The cameras didn’t have an auditory recording feature attached to the stream, and he was grateful for it. It would be too lurid to peer in and listen surreptitiously to such a sound. 

Hyladra came to Keith’s side, a hand resting against his thickly furred shoulder. Her brows knit together as she spoke--presumably asking if he was all right after such a display. How he hadn’t managed to break a delicate leg bone or tear a tendon, Zarkon wasn’t sure. The Galra could withstand much, but that was only through force of will. Their ancestors had been spry and speedy, built for chasing down prey and rending the corpses for flesh and marrow.

They hadn’t been built for prancing leaps or other gymnastics. No one had seen fit to inform Keith of this--or perhaps he didn’t care. It was highly possible he viewed such stated limitations as a challenge. Wisdom said he shouldn’t. While Galran bodies could heal, they could just as easily lame. Modern medicine halted most of those bad results, but things could go wrong, as they tended to.

Still, Keith laughed. Bright as a star, Zarkon thought, though the romance of it appalled him. For all Keith’s changed form, he remained a prisoner. One who knew how to use weapons, how to kill, and certainly kept his true thoughts to himself. Oh, Zarkon would never describe Keith as guileful--the Paladin had the guile of his precious dendin--but he had  _ sense _ .

In a world of intrigue, sense was worth far more than guile. Zarkon had seen courtiers, ministers, Druids, and merchants all die from their own cleverness. Their fine clothes caught on the edges of their plots and plans: had they told this person they’d gone to that party? Who knew what in their glorious manipulations?

Inevitably, they forgot that Devyi thought Genn a traitor, not a friend, and from there, their beautiful tangled web fell apart. Zarkon had watched hundreds fall from grace for it. Some had been at the courts and governments of the world before his rise. Many were of his reign. They’d dined beside him, flattered him, even toasted to his health.

Most lasted not even a month. They got  _ greedy _ . In their scramble to the top of the sand dune, they slid back down to the jaws of the hungering wyrms. Zarkon’s pity for such figures had worn thin. Once, he’d been fascinated by such individuals. Their quicksilver minds were breath-taking, their abilities interesting, even their forms charming.

Now? He sat at his desk and marvelled at the strange innocence and foolishness of his transformed enemy dancing. If Keith knew he was being watched, he didn’t care; and if he didn’t know, it’d never occurred to him to change his behaviour. 

Hyladra mimed some of the motions. Her attempts were hesitant and shy--so unlike her personality in the meetings he’d had with her. Hyladra of the Harim had a spine of steel, an eye for battle, and the reflexes to keep pace with even his good officers. He would never match her against someone like Sendak, but that came with the corollary of  _ yet _ . In a few years, she would be an officer. In another handful, an officer everyone would wish to know. If she kept from being led astray by any sympathies, she’d retire a general.

She might never acknowledge it, but that success would not come solely from the Paladin. He’d seen the doubts in her stance and eyes when given her position as a Hani. If he’d been less worn, he might have taken her aside and given his sympathy and understanding. But in his weariness, he’d left her to figure it out on her own. If she couldn’t, he’d thought, she might not be worthy of her position.

A cruel thought? Perhaps. But he was old enough to have had many, so what was one more?

Keith’s hands adjusted Hyladra’s limbs, though his troubled expression revealed his concerns. Galran bodies were not like human ones, and what kind of right did a man who’d had his form for less than a year have teaching someone who’d lived in it for almost two decades? He underestimated himself, as he usually did. This dancing, presumably human, was something he was an expert in, at least compared to the Galra around him. By virtue of distance and isolation, he had gained a power no one else possessed. 

Did he realize those virtues extended to other things? He was so damnably hesitant by times that Zarkon doubted it. Keith thought himself a master of nothing. If pressed for his personal virtues, he’d list nothing except for piloting. His valiant inclinations, his earnestness, his guileless charm, even his physical skills… Those were nothing to account for. They’d come to him as though from no work of his own.

Keith’s spine only turned solid when attacked. He’d danced for the Clarion when given little choice. He snarled at Galra when angered, and killed when he felt it necessary. But before that ephemeral line between ‘necessary’ and ‘desire’ was crossed, Keith would skulk like an angered kralick. He’d wait for the object of his ire to push and push. Keith endured Sendak with no violence except glowers. He’d even accommodated to Zarkon’s presence, asking him questions like they were anything but enemies. His adaptability stunned.

But more importantly, it  _ concerned _ . Someone who could adapt to enemies-turned-friends could adapt back to friends-turned-enemies. Keith reached calculations of loyalty and affection by simple sums, but it left him easily influenced. If someone knew the sums he used--generosity, laughter, purposes, even bits of knowledge--they could exploit it. If the Clarion were clever, they would have sent a missionary to convert Keith. It would have worked, if conducted by the right mind.

It was what made Zarkon so protective. He’d stopped fearing the Paladins and Alteans months ago. Their prowling at the edges of the Empire and incursions produced nothing for them to build off of. It was his own people that were the largest threat. If a rebel of one stripe or another came to Keith and no one realized it in time, they could take Keith’s lack of guile and work horrific miracles. Keith’s changeable nature had been a blessing to turn to his own ends. 

Zarkon had built Keith’s new life on a foundation of sand, and he feared every day the wind’s harsh blows.


	25. Canon | Volux and Thace talk about Keith

“Does he really look like her?”

Thace didn’t meet Volux’s gaze. “... There are similarities.”

It wasn’t what Volux wanted. “You recognized him on sight. It can’t be just  _ similarities _ . He isn’t even in a Galran body.”

“Fur and ears aren’t the only features a person has, Volux.”

Their sharp teeth ground together. “As I am aware, thank you.” Why was Thace being so stubborn? They were in a private room, one checked every time for bugs and always explained by Volux claiming to give counselling to lay Galra. Thace’s disguise as simple interest about his roots had held for two years. Why, then, did Thace dodge and weave between the simple questions?

They frowned before speaking again. “His face must be a copy of hers. Even without a proper nose or ears or fur. You looked at him, Thace, and just a look was enough to get you to betray the Empire.”

“I am not known for my impulse control.”

“No,” Volux agreed, “but you aren’t known for being dim either. I haven’t seen a picture of this Yara, so I cannot judge for myself. But I want to trust in your assumption, Thace. I’ve already risked much by helping you.”

Thace shook his head, but he didn’t snap or disagree. “We know he’s a Galra. His signature was used for Galran technology, and the Empire has examined his blood. Yara’s quintessence manipulations were good, but they cannot hide everything.”

“That’s  _ after _ you helped him escape.” Volux paused. “... Temporarily, at least. In fairness to you, you couldn’t have foreseen his capture.”

_ You let your heart lead you on this _ went unsaid.

Thace admitting that, though, was impossible. He’d never confess that his heart belonged to a woman’s ghost. His attempts to move on were in the room with him, after all. 

Thace stared at a wall tapestry as he spoke. “... I saw an image of him from one of Voltron’s attacks. He looks like her, yes. But more than that. He moves like Yara did, and his voice is--it’s heart-wrenchingly close. If he is my son, then he inherited nothing from me. If he isn’t, then he’s Yara’s soul taken new form.”

“She’d have to have gone to Earth.”

Thace shrugged. “Yara knew how to pilot a ship. She was no combat pilot, but she wouldn’t have needed to be. All she’d have needed to do was keep going.”

And then she’d turned her son to a human before… what? Keith had no knowledge of his heritage. She’d either left him, fleeing further into the outskirts of the universe, or she’d died. What was more striking than her fate was that she’d managed to turn Keith into a human. There were stories of the greatest Druids wielding quintessence to reshape the land, but to reshape flesh?

Keith had escaped notice among humans for years. What kind of power had Yara possessed? How much of it still lurked within the Paladin’s veins? Volux had never thought themselves insecure over their abilities. But there was what they’d been taught, and what Yara had done.

A Druid’s son with a father who’d produced another Druid-child. If Keith ever accessed his powers, Volux suspected things would become a nightmare to deal with.


	26. Canon | Fluffy law wonks & foodies Zeith

The paper was as tall as Rime was long. Keith stared at it. Wind tugged at the stack, but sheer weight pinned it down. Still, when it wobbled, Keith lunged to steady it. “You have to read all of this in a night?” he demanded.

Zarkon looked exhausted. “The River’s Heart isn’t known for being patient--or particularly understanding of the work an Empire demands.”

“So it’s an entire law.” Keith frowned. “What’s it about?” His mind baulked. “Sorry, I know you should get started on this--”

“No,” Zarkon said and leaned back in his seat. “It won’t be happening tonight. The representatives will have to show me some grace. I have a quartet of meetings, and I feel exhausted already.”

Keith frowned at the paper again. “So. What’s the law, then?”

“Some nonsense about taxation and a popular spice from elsewhere in the Empire.” Zarkon took a long drink of fermented gheron milk. It seemed to drain some of the tension from his shoulders. “The spice is called ‘erku’, and it comes from the seeds of a tree. Rare, pungent, and tastes like licking dirt.”

Keith snorted. “Not a fan?”

“Not particularly,” Zarkon admitted. “It became popular after some Miara dignitaries brought it during their visit. It was like choking down loam whenever one of their dishes was offered. They use it with everything. Some dim courtier decided they enjoyed dirt, and so the craze has spread. The only good thing to come of it all is the scandal.”

Keith raised an eyebrow, and a wide smile split over Zarkon’s face. “Yes,  _ scandal _ . Traditionalists are outraged that Galran youth are flirting with something so foreign. Good Galran food needs only Galran spices. I’ve heard more than a few doddering stalwarts upbraid their children and lessers for daring to use erku.”

“You seem more amused by it than anything else.”

Zarkon laughed, the sound low yet bright. A new energy had filled him--one that Keith suspected came from not having to hide his opinions. It wasn’t like Keith would gossip about Zarkon, and maybe Keith’s background as an outsider made him safe.

“I confess a love for my people,” Zarkon said, “that isn’t wholly benign. Watching them squabble reminds me of times past. Galra have always been chauvinists about culture. Tens of thousands of years have bred fine instincts for art and culture. Sometimes, though, it makes us look like petty fools. Do humans have the same flaws? You’ve lived among them.”

Keith  _ was _ a human. Keith bit his tongue with that, though. “Some of us are vocal about it, yeah.” He’d heard complaints before in Canada about ‘foreign’ food, and how many people had made fun of hipsters and Sriracha? “It’s all dumb, though. Erku may taste like dirt, but I love Thai. Most Galra would like tom khlong.”

Zarkon’s eyes brightened. “And what would I like, dearest?”

“Pla sam rot,” Keith said. “Sweet, fishy, and salty, with a bit of spice.” He hesitated. “I don’t know how it’s translating--”

“It isn’t at all,” Zarkon said, “but I like the idea of that dish. And someday, perhaps, I might have it.”


	27. Journalism in the Empire | Canon

“New load from Command,” Diara said. Her hands darted over her holostation screen. “They’re saying the recent terrorist attack was done by Klaxi. It’d figure--you know what they’re like.”

“I don’t even know why we classify them as Galran-adjacent,” Sadi muttered. “They’re insects at best.  _ At best _ .”

Diara snorted. “Are you volunteering to write the article then, Sadi? The censors will approve that column. It might even get a bit of buzz.”

Sadi’s gold eyes gleamed. “Is that permission?”

“If you write it well enough.” Diara flicked her finger in Sadi’s direction, sending files flying to Sadi’s station. “Take the terrorist file. Jarry, you get economics.”

Jarry startled his seat. His screen filled with a report sent by Diara. The report’s title was understated:  _ Recent Losses in Erku Futures _ :  _ An Outlook _ . Jarry winced. “Isn’t there anything better? Economics always ends in hate mail.”

“You’re still burned from that article on the stock market crash,” Diara said. “So you’re expendable. We’ll rehabilitate you for a festival project.”

And that was how it was. The  _ Vrikkan Emissary _ waited for the Propaganda Department to send out reports, which columnists rewrote to something more palatable, and said columns were given to the censors to check for proper sentiments, and then--finally--the columns were published. Jarry had worked for three years as a columnist, and the routine never changed. Some found the work boring. There wasn’t any challenge to the work, they said, though it did require travel.

But it was more than that. It was digesting sophisticated reports into language that common Galra could understand, gossip over, even form tentative opinions on. Jarry saw the art of writing itself as the true job. A proper jab at an unpopular figure or another, or a witty phrase coined, could earn a columnist attention. 

In an ideal world, it’d get a columnist on shows and broadcasts. Jarry knew some columnists who’d even been invited to parties at the Palace. The best of their number--Urslan, a wit from two thousand years ago--had worked his way into government as a spokesman for the Emperor. His legacy lived on in footage and his many published books.

Jarry wanted that. He wanted it  _ so badly _ he’d dedicated his life to being the perfect columnist. The requirements were less literary and far more about personality. It was about being clever, witty, rogueish, yet perfectly Galran. References to old myths or folklore was what the censors wanted--not analysis of economics or discussions of philosophy. Those were for government officials and Druids.

“You’re working to become a butterfly in intellectual weight,” his father had told him when he was a child. “Yet you’re so proud of it! What son did I raise?”

_ A clever one _ , Jarry had dreamed of saying. His father insisted on strange things. He wanted to challenge the Emperor’s choices and rail against the government. Jarry’s mother had left him for the idiocy, but Jarry still visited his father. Filial duty demanded it. 

His father didn’t understand the world. Maybe it was from too much time abroad. He’d served as most Galra did, but he’d come back to Gal different. Harsher, less trusting, and far more out of control. He viewed Jarry’s work as of little importance: he didn’t see how Jarry was a cog in a glorious machine called the Empire. 

“You should be going out to collect information,” his father said, “like how the Alteans do.”

Jarry had stiffened. As though the remaining Alteans were anything to imitate! He didn’t say it, though. Instead, he said that he got to see the world alongside military units and visited parties and festivals throughout the Empire. “I collect information,” Jarry said, “that’s within my purview to have. We are all parts of a greater whole, aren’t we? Why would I assert myself higher in position than I am?”

“Because a Galra is ferocity and ambition,” was the reply; “not weak-willed butterflies swept away by wind.”

His father lived on government allotments of food and water. The military came by to tend to his crumbling shack, and his car was fixed by Imperial mechanics. His ingratitude astounded Jarry every time. The government did everything it could to keep its citizens healthy and happy. All his father could do was complain that he’d rather grow the food himself.

Worse, every visit touched upon…  _ that _ incident. The burning of his reputation. Sometimes, when bad news came from the government, a columnist needed to take the brunt of the blame. The stock market crash had come from a scandal involving a Galran scam for far-off planetary investments. Nobody had wanted to touch it, but Jarry had been assured that the scorching would last only a year.

“You’ll be rehabilitated,” their manager had said, “as soon as possible. We simply need someone to take the public’s ire while those above us attempt to remedy the situation. Two years from now, Jarry, you’ll be invited to every festival in this system.”

It almost hadn’t been worth it. Oh, he hadn’t collected on his manager’s promise yet, but he knew he’d get it. Other columnists had gone through similar burnings. But the backlash had been intense. A deluge of outraged mail. Constant calls, some of them threats from those who’d been scammed. His job had been to write an inflammatory column about the scam and direct outrage on to himself. 

It’d worked. For an entire week, he’d been the most hated man on Gal. He’d had to leave his apartment and live inside a distant barracks for a month, but when everything had died down, the government had sailed in with the con-artist in cuffs and reparations for everyone who’d lost something. The Emperor was exalted; the Department of Order was applauded. Everything returned to normal.

That was his job, really. To help the Empire remain normal. He was a pawn to the desires of the government, but that was a Galra’s true role. For the betterment of all, the comfort of one would be sacrificed. He was twenty one, and he was sure the erku futures would be another thorough drubbing. 

“Are you truly so willing to sell your reputation for material rewards?” his father had asked during one of their weekly calls. “No gem or spice is worth how a Galra is seen by others. I’ve had calls from those you’ve outraged, and I’m certain the same has happened to your mother and friends.”

“If they love me,” he’d replied, “they’ll endure. And if they refuse to understand the nature of my work, well, I can bond with new Galra. There are billions of us.”

“But only one father and one mother.”

He’d closed his eyes then and focused on steadying his breathing. “Mother understands what I do. It is for the good of the Empire. I will be hated so that the government is spared while they fix the problem. In turn, they reward me for my sacrifice. Your disdain for the Emperor is unseemly and endangers those around you.”

“If it endangers you,” his father had said, “perhaps the government is not as good as you think.”

If they’d been face to face, Jarry thought he might have challenged his father to a fight. As it were, he breathed deeply again and spoke. “Out of duty, I will pretend I didn’t hear that. Do  _ not _ say such things in public. You will destroy more than yourself.”

Unsurprisingly, his father took that as a victory. In his mind, Jarry had admitted the Empire was not flawless--that criticism was dealt with brutally, regardless of freedom. But what was freedom in the Empire? It was a freedom to choose your work, a freedom from starvation and danger, even a freedom from worry. No Galra grew up in shackles and none went to school starving.

Wasn’t that good enough? Bemoaning the government and making wild accusations was spitting on the hand that helped you to your feet. Saying that the Emperor didn’t care for the Galra made charges that could only be answered in combat. The Emperor had endured millennia for the sake of the Empire. He had fought thousands of rebel forces both within and outside the Empire. Sacrifice was the byword of the Empire, but most of all the Emperor. 

Jarry would never call the Empire perfect. The citizens were zealous, sometimes overtly so. The departments could be lazy, a little too settled in their ways. And the military was sometimes arrogant. But those were flaws that came from the luxury they all enjoyed, and all of those problems could be fixed by the Emperor’s steady work.

Part of the Emperor’s steady work were the tasks assigned to columnists. Someone needed to take the outrage and sorrow of the Empire, and to keep the Empire’s hands clean, columnists were offered. With arrogant and nasty words, Jarry became a martyr for a time, taking on the sins of others until the sins could be washed away. A year from now, he thought, he’d be the darling of the Empire, rehabilitated through one article on orphans or medical aid, and then sent to festivals to be the face for the broadcast.

For now, though, he had more ire to draw from those who’d dared invest in erku futures.


	28. Zarkon PoV | Canon | Thoughts as Prorok flirts with Keith at the ball

It wasn’t acceptable. That was his first thought. As person after person lined up to give their gratitude and try to curry favour, Zarkon found his attention straying. Prorok watched Keith through keen eyes. Zarkon had known that inviting Keith to the ball meant risking such attentions. Keith was striking in Galra form, his ears wonderfully plush, his nose elegant, even the colour of his fur darkly brilliant. It caught the light and shimmered like stars in black-velvet space.

His size was small--more concerning than anything else--which Zarkon knew some found charming, himself among them. Swathed in sumptuous cloth and decorated with flowers and jewels, Keith looked as though he’d endured the attentions of a thousand servants. And endure was the proper word for it: Keith broadcasted discomfort with the finery, much to the chagrin of his household and the confusion of the Palace. Who wouldn’t wish to be a mysterious new arrival who’d attracted the attention of the Emperor?

None of them knew Keith was a warrior tangled in plots and secrets. He could kill most of the room in combat, even after so long away from fighting. It would have attracted the more worthy to know that--but the secret was Zarkon’s and his closest fighters. Sendak knew, which was why he now eyed Prorok from his post beside Zarkon’s throne.

Prorok purred at a rearing snake as Keith’s lips curled. It wasn’t pleasure, but Prorok--blinded by alcohol and arrogance--would read it as that. He stepped closer, talking to Keith; Hyladra, noble Hyladra, stiffened. She knew the rules of conduct for such a situation, even if she would say nothing. Zarkon watched, rapt, as Prorok touched Keith’s hand.

Scandalous, particularly when the Emperor was in the same room. Prorok had grown too bold--whether from drink or a perceived weakness in Zarkon’s position. Zarkon hid a frown with a drink of Mahadra Spring water. How to deal with Prorok, then?

Death was always an option, but it was so heavy-handed. It’d ruffle feathers to kill Prorok over Keith as well. While he knew none of his officers would say a word about it to his face, he imagined they’d whisper among themselves. The law itself was simple--to keep hands off Keith--but it was the principle that was the problem. Killing officers who displeased him was an excellent way to lose loyalty.

Prorok would need to be punished, but it had to be perceived as fair and proportionate. There were unpleasant command posts he could give, but sending Prorok away in the midst of Clarion threats seemed a foolish idea. He’d have to take into account that Prorok’s eyes had a dull sheen to them--a sign of intoxication. 

So: drunk, likely lonely as his wife had left him the year before, yet knowing better and threatening Zarkon’s authority. He couldn’t let the insult pass unremarked, but something that the others would agree was fair without turning Prorok away from him. Zarkon looked to the ceiling, his smile faint.

Perhaps he’d assign Prorok to ferry around the next emissaries who seemed particularly boring. 


	29. Sendak's PoV of Keith in Salt and Blood

Sendak tried not to think of Keith as Caith. The name came out of his mouth by necessity, but it wasn’t real. It was false as plastic, a remoulding of the Paladin that’d once been. It didn’t make the Paladin trustworthy or an ally. Keith was a prisoner of war, no matter how hard those in the Empire worked to make Keith think otherwise.

Did Keith believe it? Sendak wasn’t close enough to the situation to say. What Sendak could say was twofold: one, that Keith hd certainly been plied with the best the Empire had to offer, and that two, Keith was either a fool or planning something. Sendak leaned to the latter. What it could be, he didn’t know.

It wasn’t like Keith had opportunities to stray. He lived in the Palace, surrounded by a household, and every Galra watched him when he passed. Caith was a familiar foreigner, a favourite of the Emperor, and certainly someone good to know for those oblivious to ‘Caith’s’ origins.

Keith as a Galra had charms, Sendak wouldn’t deny it. Keith had the prudence of an old noble, the small smile of a courtier, and the ferocity of a soldier. Sendak would never call him anything but impulsive, but Sendak also knew the work Keith had done on Central Command. He’d broken the incursion of the Clarion, had slain many and led more to their deaths, and now he wore fine clothes and feasted on succulent dishes but Sendak knew that, if pushed, Keith would draw a blade.

The Emperor was attracted. That didn’t surprise Sendak. The Emperor was far from the type to become infatuated, but then Keith was special: Keith was the Red Paladin, his future right hand, and his mysterious past and scandalous origins intrigued. If Keith had been a normal human, the Emperor wouldn’t have given Keith more than a moment’s notice. There were more striking Galra, after all, and more skilled soldiers besides. 

“It’d be almost cute,” Prorok said privately, “if only he wasn’t a Blackmouth.”

_ Idiot _ . He had no idea who he spoke about. Caith being a Blackmouth was the least of their problems. Keith getting close to the Emperor meant a risk of a knife to the back. What if he stole information? What if he poisoned the Emperor? Sendak had braced himself for a disaster at the Palace, but nothing had come. Everything had remained static. The only notable thing to happen was Keith adopting a dendin. 

Who did that? Dendins were pests. The closest they came to use was as famine food. But Keith cradled it in his arms and endured its gnawing on his fingers. It showed the same resignation, Sendak thought, that Keith had for his situation. Keith did not enjoy captivity, but he endured it. He knew it could be worse.

Sendak hated that. Oh, he didn’t care about Keith’s discomfort, but the least Keith could have done was shout and whine. It would have justified Sendak’s suspicion and dislike. Instead, whenever he heard about Keith as Caith, he found himself enduring gossip or hearing others praise Keith. Even the Emperor did it in private.

Sometimes Sendak felt like more of a prisoner in the Palace than Keith.


	30. Cultural Misunderstandings | Gestures | Central Command

“I’m not saying it’s silly,” Keith said, his hand rising with a finger gun to point at the terminal, “but it’s… not great. It looks like a kid cartoon.”

Hyladra blinked at his finger. “What do Earth’s news shows look like?”

The finger gun sank a bit, wilting. “Mostly just people at a desk. Some graphics too? But it’s people, not like this.”

The paused screen stared out at him. He didn’t want to be too negative, but the images were  _ weird _ . Everything was animated--not in CNN graphics, but footage was drawn by hand or computer, and people spoke over the footage. It was like a cartoon on steroids. 

Keith let the finger gun go loose. “Is this for kids?”

“Partly,” Hyladra said. “When there’s news that needs to be broadcasted, this is what appears in schools and in public. Having personalities shown to children means they may get attached. It’s better if the figures are animated.”

Keith crossed his arms. It still looked silly: an animated Galra, their features washed away in the swirling colours, guided the viewer through the universe’s news. If it was for children as Hyladra said, it was  _ better _ , but not good. He tried to imagine town squares and bases with large screens broadcasting it.

The show fit in the crippling way the Empire doled out information and news. There wasn’t much of an informative bent to the show. It made him think of a Brave New World with its candy-colours and constant movement. 

Keith shrugged. “It’s pretty, at least.”

“You did a hyra at it, though.” Hyladra looked doubtful. “You said you hated it?”

Hyra? “What’s a hyra?”

Hyladra raised a hand and formed a finger gun. “This! You hate the show.” She paused. “You  _ threatened _ it.”

“I come from Earth,” he said gently. “It doesn’t mean anything but, uh… emphasis. Or showing understanding. What does it mean here?”

“A threat.” Hyladra patted a seat beside her. “We’re going to need to discuss this so you don’t do it again.” When he took the seat, she straightened. “A hyra is a threat that you will shoot someone, or that something deserves to die.”

Keith paled. Had he ever done that before? The motion was sometimes so subconscious he didn’t even realize he’d done it. He didn’t think he’d threatened anyone. No one had confronted him about it, at least.

He shifted in the chair, his stomach sinking. “Have you seen me do it before?”

“No,” Hyladra said. “I’d have said something.” She sighed. She proceeded to do a thumbs-up. “This is for signalling a vulgar gesture. It, ah, refers to something going up the rectum.” Her ears were flattened, and he imagined a brilliant scarlet on her cheeks beneath her fur.

It fit with some Earth cultures, he knew. “Have I used--”

“Yes,” she admitted. “Your words alongside the gesture clarified the meaning. It shocked a few other cadets.”

“Why didn’t you say something?”

Hyladra slumped a bit. “Because I didn’t want to talk about this with you. Not the general subject, but more… this in specific. I simply hoped you’d never do it again.”

That was embarrassing to know. “And other people--did they, uh, know that wasn’t what I meant?”

“I spoke to them afterward. They agreed it would be more prudent to simply ignore the actions. They were rare, I promise you, Keith. You are not an expressive man outside of anger.” Hyladara smoothed her uniform. “If there are other symbols your people use, it may be a good time to show me them. I can tell if you they’re, ah, poor choices to use.”

Keith frowned. Even if they went through them, he knew it wouldn’t click. Not completely. On impulse, he’d give someone a thumbs-up, except now he’d realize, seconds after he’d done it, what he’d said. The Galra had been understanding so far, at least. He breathed a sigh out.

“Okay,” Keith said. He shaped his index finger and thumb into an ‘O’ and splayed out the rest of his fingers. “It’s a symbol of understanding or ‘good’. What does it mean to you?”

“Military symbol for the sun rising.” Hyladra’s brows raised. “How it refers to okay, I’m unsure.”

Keith frowned down at his hand. He supposed he saw how it was a sun--the ‘O’ the roundness of the sun, while the other fingers were rays. “Why would you need a military symbol for the sun rising?” he asked. “Wouldn’t it be pretty obvious?”

“Not on some planets,” she said grimly. “Some are choked by smog, or the sun’s light is so dim, you can barely recognize it. Its power is just enough to keep the planet from freezing over completely. Other times, you might be sheltered in a cave, and your scout might be at the mouth. It’s admittedly not a common symbol, but it exists.”

It had such an innocent meaning. If only he actually used the symbol--it’d be better than talking about rectal intrusions. He changed his hand into a thumbs-down motion. “And this?”

Hyladra gave his hand a dubious look. “... A simple direction to turn something off. What does it mean for you?”

It was such a varied expression that he tried to put it into words. “No thanks? Or just a no. ‘Bummer’ too, when something bad happens.”

“ _ Bummer? _ ”

Another thing that didn’t translate well. “Uh--unfortunate. Depressing. It’s slang.”

“Your people have the strangest slang, Keith. What about those things evokes bottoms?”

Take it up with the 80s, he thought. At least, that’s when he thought it became popular. “I don’t know.” He added a shrug for good measure. “Things are strange. Some of our words just sort of happen.” He switched his hand to a rocker’s devil horns. “This is, uh--” How did he explain Satan? “It’s a sign of horned creatures, like if a team’s represented by an animal mascot. It can also be, uh, a symbol for people to party on or even of a bad spirit that some of Earth believes in. I know it has meanings elsewhere, though--all the signs I’ve shown you do.”

Hyladra scrutinized the horns. “... We don’t have a meaning for that gesture.” She raised her own hand and did a ‘V’ sign. “Sex,” she said simply.

Heat exploded over his cheeks. If he’d  _ ever _ done that, he was going to space himself. “Please--”

“You haven’t done it,” Hyladra assured him. “You tried it once during a picture but I, ah, encouraged you to another symbol.” Her hands rubbed at her cheeks. “Specifically, this.” She raised her hand, curling her ring finger and pinky. The other three fingers were perked up and held against her head. She grinned, her eyes bright.

It was… cute. Even with the claws and teeth. “What does that mean?”

“The three pillars!” Hyladra released the pose and straightened. “One for the Voice, one for the military, and one for the Emperor. On those three rests the Empire. You’ll see a lot of Galran tourists posing with it. It’s a good reminder of where we come from.”

So he’d flashed a government salute that’d been watered down into nothing. That wasn’t going to look good, he thought, if the other Paladins ever saw it. He rubbed his temples. They’d understand, wouldn’t they? It wasn’t like he’d known. He tried to remember the instance where he’d done it, but his brain provided nothing. It’d been forgotten in a deluge of photos and videos.

The Galra liked to take recordings of him. He didn’t know why, but they did. Maybe it was to brag to people back home about, or they genuinely liked him. But he knew, at the heart of it all, they didn’t view him as a ‘full’ person. He was a prisoner who could make a joke or fight like a soldier, and that made him interesting. Nothing more. 

“Well,” Keith said. “This has been… educational.”

Hyladra  scratched at her right ear, as though sheepish. “I should have said something sooner,” she admitted. 

“Probably,” Keith replied, “but it’s done now. So long as people don’t think I’m a weirdo or a freak, it’s no harm done?”

“No one thinks less of you.” Hyladra reached out to to take his hand. Her fur tickled his bare skin. “We all know you’re not a Galra, and that you don’t know much about the Empire. You could wander the halls naked and everyone would dismiss it as a cultural difference.” She paused. “Not that that’s an invitation--”

“I have no desire to walk around naked.” Keith rubbed a finger against the pads of her hand. “I just wonder now how many more things I’m missing.”

Hyladra’s gleaming eyes softened. “You’re learning. That’s what matters. I will be more forward about these things, if that would help? I do not wish for you to feel lost.”

Keith suspected it was too late for that. Everything on Central Command was foreign and strange and just a little bit hostile towards him. The Galran version of friendliness was a proverbial cockfight before bonding could happen. Keith wasn’t even sure he  _ should _ bond, but what choice did he have? If he didn’t have someone to talk to, he’d go insane.

“I’d appreciate that,” he said. It was better than being a fool, at least.


	31. Rime and Shiro's Hair Floof

It wasn’t a big creature. Keith could hold it in his arms, and even when it flopped and twisted about, he could control it. Its sharp teeth sunk into Keith’s forearm and fingers. Some of the bites were from annoyance, but most were boredom. It gnawed at Keith’s thumb in a sulk. Shiro thought it for the best it stay in Keith’s arms. Its teeth were long and sharp, and Shiro suspected the creature was the type to hunt feet.

It did look soft, though. A mix of fur and scales and feathers, it looked like a fever dream of some cloud serpent from legend. Shiro came close, giving in to the impulse to take a closer look. A pair of acidic green eyes met his as the creature wormed around, raising its upper half. Keith let the animal move--though he pressed a hand against its ruff, ready to contain it.

It chirped twice and chattered its teeth. What that meant, Shiro had no clue. What was more notable was that one of its stumpy front legs reached up to scratch at the air. Shiro raised a brow at it and leaned forward. The stumpy leg reached higher, clawing at something far away. What was it?

“I wouldn’t get too close,” Keith said. “Rime can be… aggressive sometimes. It’s not a bad animal, but it isn’t really tame.”

Still, he cradled it against his chest. ‘Rime’ might have been a wild animal, but it was a wild animal that’d attached itself to Keith. If it had truly hated the position it was in, Shiro suspected it’d have done far more than gnaw on Keith. It would have ripped and torn and screamed. 

The stumpy leg reached higher and higher. The little birdish foot closed and opened, grasping. What was it so enamoured with? Shio squinted at the creature. An idea struck him, then. He reached up and smoothed his white tuft.

Rime chirped a series of bright notes. The leg spasmed open and shut again and again. Keith tried to smother a laugh, but it broke free. “Is it--?”

“I think it is,” Shiro said. “I guess it looks like a bit of its species’ fur?”

“I guess you’re part dendin, then.” Keith hitched Rime higher on his chest. The foot never stopped its grasping. “I’d say come closer to see what happens, but Rime’s not the friendliest.”

What did that matter, though? Shiro inched closer, hunching down. “So long as it doesn’t go for the eyes, I think I’m fine.” Keith endured the creature’s grumpy ire with a casualness that any exotic animal handler would envy. 

Rime chirped and chattered, louder and louder the closer Shiro got. The leg strained out. The moment Shiro came in range, the thought struck him that Rime might not mean to, but could accidentally claw his eyes out in its eagerness. But it was too late for that: the leg snapped around the tuft. Its claws carded through it, and Rime crooned in what might have been happiness.

Keith stared down at the creature. “Uh--”

Shiro took the chance to scratch the creature’s belly. The sounds it made rumbled in its chest. Rime relaxed in Keith’s arms as it played with Shiro’s tuft. The claws were sharp and threatened to leave a scratch or two behind, but it was the first time in the time he’d seen Rime around that it looked truly relaxed.


	32. Harry Potter Discussions | Gen | Post-Salt and Blood | Future fic

Keith liked something called ‘Harry Potter’. Hyladra didn’t know what that meant other than that it was a book and it was a book that children read. Keith said something about magic. Hyladra had assumed that meant Druid-like powers, but Keith had waved an imaginary stick about and said some words that she knew weren’t English, Galran,  _ or _ Altean and then turned to her with a smile.  _ Magic _ , he said.

She didn’t get it. In her defense, not even Volux understood what he was on about. “I thought he meant mythological magic,” they said, “but sticks were never used for that. Who’d waste wood on something like a special stick?”

Kymin was the one who pushed the next time Harry Potter was mentioned. “I know a lovely series on a mining dynasty,” he said.

Keith’s brow had furrowed. “For kids?”

“For children, yes.” Kymin smiled, the expression liquified purring. “It teaches valuable lessons about strength, honour, and respect. My favourite character was a maid who killed the sadistic heir to the Caravels.”

Keith’s lips pursed. “... Harry Potter’s a little less, uh, extreme. It got a lot darker as the books went on? But there was a lot of childhood stuff in the books.” He frowned. “What was the series’ message?”

“That patience and hardwork,” Kymin said, “will ultimately win out over craven acts of cowardice and manipulation. A child with a clever mind should be trained to use it wisely--and a fool should be taught their limits. And Harry Potter?”

“Love conquers all.” Keith sounded embarrassed. “Or, uh, friendship too. It’s partly about found family.”

Nobody knew what to make of that. Volux called it weak when Keith was gone; Kymin argued it had a bit of charm. Love conquering all sounded ridiculous to Hyladra’s ears. Love was an emotion to be valued, but to put it beyond everything else? Love didn’t stop bullets. Love didn’t protect an artery from a knife. It was an emotion that could make someone dim, oblivious, and desperate.

The series Kymin had mentioned, the Kings-grown Chronicles, had not adored love like Harry Potter. There’d been Galra who loved each other, and sometimes it was sublime. But many times, it was a weakness or threat. People were driven mad over love, whether it was familial, romantic, or unrequited. An undisciplined mind could wreak havoc in the name of affection.

What did it mean that humans exalted love beyond all else in the series? Hyladra hoped it was a small series, one that’d caught a lonely child’s fancy. Except when Harry Potter came up again, Keith spoke about it in universal terms.  _ Everyone _ had read it. It’d been out for more than a century, and now everyone had ‘houses’ and ‘favourite’ schools or magic courses they wanted to do.

Thace indulged him. Hyladra put it down to a father wanting to make up for lost time, but did they really need to do it over supper? “What’s your house?” Thace leaned in. “Is it in the desert?”

Keith blinked. “Uh,” was all he said for a moment. The rest of his brain lurched into action seconds after. “It’s not quite like that? Not literal houses.” Keith frowned at his food. “For really old schools in some countries, students got put into a group or ‘house’ that’d look after them. Mostly it was about sports teams and connections, but in Harry Potter, these houses had innate qualities to them, and a ha-- _ magical object _ determined where they were put.”

“Like ranks?” Hyladra asked.

Keith winced. “It didn’t have any bearing on where they ended up.” He looked almost chagrined, which made her wonder at the truth of his words. She suspect he was lying to save his adopted people’s dignity. “Anyway, the houses were Slytherin, Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, and Ravenclaw.”

“Hufflepuff,” Kymin muttered, his brows raised. He seemed to delight in the word. “What is a Hufflepuff?”

Keith shrugged. “I have no idea--outside of the house, that is. Each of the have animals they’re associated with, as well as colours and traits. Hufflepuff is for people who are loyal and hardworking. Their colours are yellow and black.”

Hyladra brightened. “A noble group! Diligence is what keeps any nation running, and loyalty holds a nation together. Would you say I’m a Hufflepuff?”

“I would,” Keith said, and Hyladra couldn’t resist a wide grin. Some teeth threatened to show it was so wide. “And uh, I think Kymin would be a Ravenclaw.”

“Claw?” Kymin’s eyes glinted. “Do tell, Keith.”

“Blue and bronze,” Keith said. “The traits of curiosity, wit, and intelligence.”

Kymin laughed, bright and hearty. The shadows he carried was momentarily forgotten. “Are you flattering me, Keith? I’ll gladly take such a house. I do not know what a ‘raven’ is, but I promise that my claws are far worse than its.”

“Threatening fictional creatures now, are we?” Volux picked at their food like a particularly haughty bird. “Truly, a warrior for the ages.”

“Slytherin,” Keith said. Volux stopped mid-prod of a meatball. They looked up, their bare face revealing a single raised eyebrow. “Cunning, ambition, resourcefulness. Painfully sarcastic. Your colours are silver and green--”

A series of disgusted noises went through the room. “You’re really going to do that?” Volux demanded. “You’re going to give me  _ green _ ?”

Thace was failing to hide a smirk. “I think it’s fitting.”

“You would,” Volux said darkly. “Tell me he’s a Slyther-whatever as well.”

Keith scrutinized Thace. “Maybe?” Keith frowned. “Or a Gryffindor.”

“Where did your people even come up with these names,” Volux said, shaking their head. “The Lion’s translation is so poor, it sounds like you’re growling and snarling. What are his colours now?”

“Well, there’s red--”

Volux groaned loudly as Thace burst into laughter. “This is what you’re going to do, Paladin? This?” Thace reached over to touch their shoulder, but Volux brushed him away. “Of all the thrice-damned colours. Fine. He gets red, the most brilliant and special colour of them all. What else?”

Keith’s eyes were wide, and his expression frozen. “Gold?”

Resignation. Pure, undiluted resignation spread over Volux’s face. “I’d accuse you of making this up to torment me,” Volux said, “but I don’t think you’re this clever or creative. So he gets to the lushness of a forest and the colour of the soul. Meanwhile, I am a rain-threatened ocean and the blood spilled from my people. Is there anything  _ good _ about being a Slytherin?”

Keith hesitated. “You’re good at potions?”

“ _ Potions? _ ” Volux’s voice reeked of disgust. “So I mix herbs and water and create useless things. Potions! As though that will make me feel better--”

“Snakes are cute,” Keith offered. “And, uh, you’re good at fighting.”

Volux’s mouth snapped closed. Their eyes narrowed as they looked over Keith, forever suspicious of anything that agreed with them. “... What is a snake?”

They had to find a napkin and pen for Keith to draw on. He wasn’t used to his hands being Galran, but he’d learned how to manage. A long, noodle-like creature coiled on the off-white paper. It had a flicking tongue, cold eyes, and a sly expression. It looked, Hyladra thought, like a clever pet. One that was less cuddly than a bru, but one a Galra could respect.

“I like it,” Volux announced. “These are my house’s heralds?”

Keith put the pen down. Everyone had crowded around behind him. “There’s nothing wrong with being a Slytherin anyway,” he said, “but they are your House’s animal. Hyladra has a badger, Kymin an eagle, and Thace a lion--”

Everyone reared back. “A  _ lion _ ?” Volux demanded. “I take it back. I want to be a Gryffindor--”

“Too late,” was Thace’s reply. “Gryffindor is a most excellent house. Keep your reptile, Volux.” Thace’s lips quirked as he contemplated Keith. “But the most important question now, is what house are  _ you _ ?”

“Slytherin,” Volux said. “I’m not being green alone--”

“He’s smart enough to be a Ravenclaw,” Kymin said, smirking. “Almost as brilliant as me, in fact!”

“He’s hard-working,” Hyladra pointed out. “Everything he’s ever seen, he’s had the patience and diligence to understand it.”

Volux sniffed. “He’s not loyal, though. Things wouldn’t have happened if he was.”

“No,” Thace murmured, “they wouldn’t have. That shows his courage, doesn’t it? He was willing to burn everything to the ground for the chance of what might grow in its place.”

“Isn’t that Slytherin behaviour?” Volux purred. “Cunning, resourceful, clever, but not willing to trust anything that isn’t him. He was the one who killed her, after all--not his strange friends.”

‘Strange friends’ was a word for it, Keith supposed. “I’m not ambitious--”

Everyone stared at him. Hyladra’s brow furrowed as Kymin pursed his lips. Volux turned away, muttering something in an old tongue that even Red couldn’t translate, and then there was Thace who reached out to gently touch his shoulder.

“You’re trying to remake the universe,” Thace told him. “If you are not ambitious, then you are a fool.”

Keith was fairly certain there wasn’t a house for fools.


	33. Sheith/Zeith | Pining | Post-Salt and Blood | Future Fic

Jealousy was not a mathematical equation. It wasn’t simply Person A with Person B equal Person C being jealous. It was a complex emotion, one tangled in a hundred factors. Who else did Person C have? Was their string of lovers notorious for its length? Did they work long hours--thus leaving them attached to a single person?

It’d been a long time since Zarkon had been Person C. He’d almost forgot what jealousy felt like. He didn’t make a habit of nurturing the emotion, and few things elicited it. But now, on the bridge of a Castle he hadn’t seen in millennia, he saw Keith press close to the pretender Black Paladin, and his heart squeezed. At first, he thought himself ill. The Voice was dead, after all, destroyed by his favourite Galra, and he’d been waiting for weakness to visit.

But the feeling eased when Keith pulled away to tap at one of the consoles. The realization of what he felt almost knocked him off his feet: was his heart truly going to do this to him? Hadn’t he earned an ounce of peace? No, his heart said.  _ We had him and you let him go. _

Zarkon forced back a gusty sigh. To clip a bird’s wings was a special cruelty when it’d been birthed to fight and fly. There were a hundred harsher measures he could have imposed on Keith; all of them would have kept him on Gal and away from the Voice. But Zarkon hadn’t been able to find it in himself to wrap Keith in chains or bind him to a dozen Galra. He would never claim to have been truly kind--but he hadn’t been a monster.

Keith grinned up at the human. Were his eyes soft as they’d sometimes been for Zarkon, or did they have the fire he adored? There was no fury inside Zarkon to conjure or rein in. Just a dull sense of exhaustion. Winning back Keith would be impossible. The human, Shiro, was young, handsome, human, and had a far better reputation than Zarkon.

An ancient and dying tyrant, or a dashing soldier of the race Keith so badly wanted to be? Zarkon thought himself cunning, but there were limits to charm. Shiro touched Keith’s shoulder, and Keith smiled. It was a genuine smile, small and gentle, and Zarkon wished for it to once again be aimed in his own direction.

That was over, though. It’d ended in not one specific moment, but in a series of indignities and misfortunes. Zarkon could invite Keith to a hundred little dinners, a thousand parties, and offer ten thousand gifts, but it wouldn’t charm Keith back. Keith hungered for change and excitement, life and brightness, not the dour sandstone and salt buildings of Gal, or Zarkon’s quiet ways. 

Zarkon was dark libraries and long nights. Shiro was lush fields and blue skies. It was poetry, a choice between the moon and sun. And Keith--Keith, fiery and fierce, deserved the sun. He had been born to it.


End file.
